


Countless Roads

by nirejseki, robininthelabyrinth (nirejseki)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, DEADFIC, Gen, M/M, Very Long Fic, not a slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 231,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/robininthelabyrinth
Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.





	1. Prologue

The dead won't leave Len alone.

It's not his fault, not _really_. It's a family curse, or gift, apparently; gone down from mother to son and son to daughter as long as his mother knew of. 

His mother told him that back home – she always called it 'back home' like Ethiopia was somewhere she'd left only for a moment and intended to return to, even though she'd lived in Central City since she was a kid herself, brought along by her parents after they’d fled the second world war – it was seen as a good thing. A blessed thing. 

It’s not to everyone that Elohim gives the power to see ghosts, after all, his mother tells him. You know who does that? The great rabbis from the Talmud, the woman that raised up old Samuel, old Elijah, and us. It's a great honor – subject to some debate, that is, but what isn’t? 

Well, it’s supposed to be a great honor, anyway, at least before it kills you. Their family doesn't live to fifty, usually, not unless they're very lucky. 

Len was very small when his mother, scarcely thirty, died choking on it. His father had killed her without laying a hand on her, though he did plenty of that, too.

The dead, you see, generally want to live. Len's family, they're great at that: they've got plenty of life in them, too much of it, got enough to share if they want. They can make a faint echo into a spirit, a spirit into an apparition, an apparition into a poltergeist, a poltergeist into a fully-fledged manifestation. If we really put our back into it, Len's mom told him, we can make them almost appear human. Let them touch and feel and eat and everything.

The ghostly dream come true.

But even Len's family has only got so much life to spare, and some of it's got to be spent on living. Len's mother spent hers unwisely, falling in love with a man that did nothing but drain her just like the dead did. And the dead sometimes don’t ask, sometimes they just take and take and take –

And that’s how Len's mother died, because she didn't have the energy to fight back. Len's dad took most of what she had, and the dead took the rest, and now the only one left is Len, and he has to put up with his dad too.

Lucky thing he's young and full of life. It'll take some time before Lewis can beat him down enough for the dead to get to him.

Because Len doesn't care about it being a blessing or something you feel like you gotta do, a mission in life, something like that, the way his mom had said it was. Len wants to live, and if that means not sharing nothing with the ghosts, so be it.

He doesn't care. 

He doesn't.

He does.

He promises himself he won't give any of them the time of day, much less part of his life, that he'll be as cold as his father always tells him he has to be. And at first he is, but –

"I just want to hug my baby again," one whispers mournfully as he passes. 

And, well, surely just a little won't hurt?

It doesn't, either: he gives her just enough for one last ghostly embrace, a dropped penny with a significant date, and all he gets is a little hungrier. Steals two hot dogs from the deli instead of one, and he doesn't notice a thing. 

The next one wants a burger.

It's so prosaic he has to laugh, and, well, he does that rare enough that it's worth giving himself a headache getting the guy all the way to poltergeist stage and letting him loose at his favorite burger restaurant.

He makes it through the years as best he can, saying no to most like he ought but giving it to a few. It's harder when the food is scarce and his father mean, but sometimes he can't resist.

Then Lisa is born and he knows he's gotta do everything in his power to stop giving 'cause he can't let himself die so long as she's around, so long as he's the only one there to protect her from her mother's indifference and their father's cruelty. 

Turns out to be a bad idea.

Len's mom always told him he's got to give, that he can't deny it, but saying no is easy enough – well, easy enough if he closes his eyes and thinks of Lisa – and it's not until the unquiet dead come after him that he understands that a bit of giving is necessary if he wants to stay alive.

See, the ghosts he helps because they asked are the ones who defend him against the ones who want to take without asking.

The unquiet dead, his mom called them. 

The cruel, the vicious, the ones who want revenge or pain, the ones who thrive on spite and pettiness, the ones that stuck around because damned if they'll see someone else thrive. The men who are like his father, small-minded and always blaming the world for the hurt they unleash upon it; the women who are like him, too. The murderers, the hitters, the waspish middle aged ex-prom queens who stick around to ruin their rival's lives long after the competition's over and the final bell's been rung.

They know Len won't say yes to them, so they don’t even bother asking. Instead they come with grasping hands, grabbing and hurting, until Len’s muscles ache like he's been running too much, his lungs choke up, he gasps for air –

The last few ghosts he allowed himself to help, a gang of kids who wanted to play at the arcade, a grandmother to attend a wedding she desperately wanted to be at, a guy trying to talk his best bud out of suicide – suddenly they're there, pulling the unquiet dead off of him, and he can breathe again.

They're so few, though, and the unquiet dead so many; it's hard and takes them a while. Takes a while before Len’s arms stop shaking and his fingers and teeth unclench. 

The school nurse says he had a seizure.

His father looks at him, sneer on his face, and tells Len that he'd better not do that shit again or he'll get what's coming to him. Len promises he won't.

And he won't. He knows better now. He's got to give to some if he's going to stay alive; he just can't give to too many, that’s all. He's young and he's full of life and he's got a family curse and it's time he started accepting that instead of running from it.

He'd do better if only his dad didn't take so much time and energy and pain. 

It's harder now that his dad's figured out that Len'll do anything for Lisa, not just feed her and tuck her in and play with her, but throw himself between them and agree to all sorts of dumb things if only Lisa stays safe.

All _sorts_ of dumb things.

Like the robbery job that goes so far south that not even Len can rescue it, no friendly ghosts to peek around the corners and tell him if someone's coming, no scary sound distracting people at the right time; and his dad doesn't just ditch him but scapegoats him, too. Blames the whole thing on him, smirking the whole while when he talks about how sad it is how kids these days are. Terrible, really. Some juvie’ll do good to scare the boy straight, he’s sure of it. 

Len goes into the judge's chamber and tells him, "I can't go to juvie, I'm raising a kid."

"Aren't you fourteen, Mr. Snart?"

"It's my sister. Someone’s gotta raise her, and it ain’t my dad who’s doing it."

The judge makes a face. "Sorry, kid," he says, and he seems to mean it, too, for all the good that does Len. "We all know your dad was in on the job, but unless you're willing to testify against him..."

"He'll only get worse if I do," Len says. 

"He'll be in prison," the judge points out.

"For a year, maybe two," Len replies. "He's got friends, and he'll plea deal out. And then I'll be in for it for real."

The judge makes another face, but doesn't disagree.

"Please," Len says, and he doesn't say that to just anybody.

"Sorry," the judge says again, averting his eyes, but he only sentences Len to two months in juvie – a tenth of the time he could – on the grounds that Len's a first-time offender.

It's not great, but it's better than nothing.

Turns out, in the end, that it was a good thing, because in juvie he nearly dies, but doesn't, and in juvie –

He meets Mick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! This is what I've been colloquially calling my deadfic on tumblr - it's about 190,000 words, easily the longest thing I've ever written. We're going to go all the way through Len's childhood, through the Flash, and Legends. I hope to post new chapters every few days, and it'll STILL probably take a few months to finish. I hope everyone enjoys reading as much as I enjoyed writing!


	2. 1

"You stay the hell away from him!" the voice roars. 

Len shakes and shudders and curls up in a ball on the floor.

Juvie is worse than he could have imagined – oh, the kids themselves are bad enough, pushy and mean and some of them are old enough for the look in their eyes to be more than standard schoolyard aggression, but it's only Len's first day; they're going to wait until the guards lose interest in him before trying anything. 

The ghosts don't wait at all.

It's a bad place, a centering ground, land that stinks of sadness and anger and sucks in ghosts like a whirlpool. Human misery is the only company these ghosts have –

– at least, until Len arrives.

The unquiet dead gather their forces as he gets checked in, watch him, teeming with anticipation, in the yard, and then come for him right after dinner.

His own ghosts, bought in coin – pieces of future years – spent before he came, try their best to protect him, but he underestimated the number of unquiet dead lingering here. He underestimated the number of murderer's victims, children and adults, the number of suicides, the number of unlucky daredevils, the number of accidental deaths –

And then Mick – though Len doesn't know his name, not yet – rips them off of Len, one leech at a time, and puts himself between them and Len's shaking, spasming body.

"Hurts," Len rasps, unable to say more.

"Don't worry," the other boy says, glaring. He's big, for a teenager; a promise of height and breadth in the future. "I won't let them near."

"Gimme a hand up?" Len asks.

The boy shakes his head, and that's when Len realizes.

"You're dead too, ain't you," he says, flat as a stone. 

"I've been here the longest," the boy responds, shrugging. "Since before they built the place."

Len sighs and climbs to his feet. He'd so hoped, seeing the boy’s strength, that he'd finally met another of his kind, but no; the boy's just another apparition. Barely that, even; he has a very strong presence, probably due to his age, but he’s not even a poltergeist on his own merits.

"Thanks," he tells him anyway, because apparition or not, the boy _did_ just save his life. 

"Don't mention it," the kid says.

The funny thing is, he really seems to mean it. No favors requested, no suggestions that Len repay him, nothing. 

If anything, the guy seems to avoid Len whenever possible – which isn't much, because he comes rushing in whenever the unquiet ghosts float too close. 

"Why are you helping me?" Len asks him.

"Don't like bullies," the kid says shortly. "Never did."

Then he retreats again, dashing away every time Len comes anywhere near him.

"Don't you want something?" Len asks. "Something you want to do?"

"Nah," the kid replies. "I'm good."

"You're a _ghost_. You gotta want _something_."

"Not from you, you little punk."

The curiosity is starting to get to Len. Finally, he gives up on trying to figure out the kid's angle and takes a different approach.

"What's your name?" he asks.

The kid-ghost blinks, then narrows his eyes at him warily. "What's it to you, necromancer?"

Len makes a face. "I ain't a necromancer," he protests. "I can't raise dead or command ‘em or nothing; I just make 'em closer to real, s'all. Life-sharing. _Totally_ different."

“Uh-huh. And what about summoning ‘em and making ‘em possess people or something?”

“No, that’s _mediums_. I ain’t never even met one of those, but I hear they’re creepy. I just…share, s’all.”

"Why you want my name, then?" the kid asks, still suspicious.

"'cause I'm getting tired of calling you kid-ghost," Len replies, exasperated. "And right now I don't got anything to shout if I need your attention."

"You've always got my attention," the kid grumbles. "My ma says you give someone your name, you give 'em power over you."

Len rolls his eyes. "Well, my name is Leonard Snart, but sometimes when my mom got mad she’d use the full on Leonard Jacob Snart birth certificate business. Now you know, so don't misuse it. And nice to meet you."

The kid finally cracks an involuntary grin. It changes his whole tough face, making it go bright and delighted, smashing that tough guy image with glee. "Oh what the heck," he says. "I'm Mick. That's Michael Christopher Sebastian Rory, actually, but everybody called me Mick."

"Nice to meetcha, Mick," Len says. "I'd offer to shake, but...well…" He wiggles his fingers. Magic, life-giving fingers. 

Mick sniggers.

Maybe there is something to what Mick's ma said about names, because after that they're inseparable. Best friends from different eras, friends like neither of them ever had before. Maybe they’d have been best friends in this life, if only Mick wasn’t dead, but Len will take friendship with a ghost over nothing. 

The other kids think Len's crazy, talking to himself, and ostracize him, relegating him to the outcast table with the quiet dangerous ones like Jumping Jimmy and Shrieking Sam and Cuckoo Charlie. (Len gets dubbed Lunatic Leo, which, _ugh_. He’s going to find a better nickname if it kills him.)

But really, Len doesn't mind where he sits, so long as he's got Mick.

Sitting at the crazy outcast table is kinda funny, actually; Mick's a pretty good judge of people, Len's found, and his invisible commentary over people's heads is hilarious.

"He's just got no volume control and a spoiled temper," Mick says of Sam. "Nothing to worry about."

"Ma said people like him just had a devil in 'em keeping them from sitting still," he says of Jimmy. "It ain't no problem, long as they keep busy."

"And Charlie?" Len asks, amused.

Mick considers this. "I think he's gonna grow up to eat people. Stay away."

Len snorts, but does. 

Mick’s damn useful in a fight, which Len does inevitably get into, shouting advice (mostly “duck” and “hit him in the face”), and Mick likes _watching_ fights, too. But most of all, Mick likes fighting the unquiet ghosts himself; in particular, he's got a real hatred of a group of white supremacists that got themselves stabbed in a gang fight back when the juvie was a real prison. They _hate_ Len, which makes sense what with him being Jewish and all, but they still want his life, and that just pisses them off more, which means more fights for Mick. 

"You like punching Nazis, huh?" Len teases.

"Hell yes," Mick says. "They're bad stuff, through and through."

"Regular Captain America you are."

"Who?"

“What d’you mean, _who_? Captain America! From the comic books!”

“I’m _dead_ ,” Mick points out. “I don’t keep up on popular culture.”

“No way,” Len says stubbornly. “Captain America’s been around _forever_. I’m pretty sure he was drawn punching Hitler in the face on his very first cover.”

“Say, that’s not bad,” Mick says, grinning a bit. “Punched him in the face, you say?”

“Didn’t you read comics?”

“Sure I did,” Mick says, crossing his arms. “Joe Palooka, Dick Tracey, Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers – the whole lot of ‘em.”

“What the hell are _those_?”

“You don’t know those?”

“I think I’ve heard of Buck Rodgers – he a spaceman or something?”

“Yeah, him and Flash Gordon, both of ‘em. Dick Tracey’s a sleuth, and Joe Palooka’s a boxer.”

“Don’t you got any crime fighters? Like in costumes? Superheroes?”

Mick wrinkles his nose when he frowns in thought. “Uh, I mean, I guess maybe the Phantom? It was brand new; real cool stuff, fighting pirates and stuff. They called him the Ghost Who Walks. Real sweet.”

“Brand new,” Len says, shaking his head. “When did you die again? The _dark ages_?”

“Eh, may as well have been,” Mick says. “We all thought the world was ending.”

“ _Every_ generation thinks the world’s ending.”

“Nah, not like ours,” Mick says. “Between the Depression and – what was it they were calling the black blizzards, the Dust Bowl? Anyway, between those two, it was real bad.”

“Wait,” Len says. “ _When_ exactly did you die?”

“Late 1936.”

“ _Shit_. You _are_ old.”

“Told ya,” Mick says smugly. 

“Was there even a juvie here?”

Mick rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “The juvie’s only a decade or two old. Before that it was a prison. Before that, it was a particularly badly run farm.”

“… _your_ farm?”

“Well, yes.”

“You were a _farmer_?! Working the fields, calling in the cows, all that sort of thing?”

“I died first,” Mick reminds Len.

“But still – you’re _so old_.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no – it’s just – I’m gonna get you _all_ the comics,” Len says, and does, even if it means spending some of his hard-earned money – all the juvie kids get pennies for every hour they work in addition to the required school time – and that of others (mostly the rich kids who get some from their parents in the mail) on some of the old reprints, the ones that go real cheap nowadays and are kinda corny by modern standards. But it's worth it. 

Mick _loves_ comics.

He can’t move the pages himself – not unless Len gives him some life, which Mick steadfastly refuses to accept – but Len can flip them nice and slow, letting Mick have time to read each page, and sometimes when Mick’s eyes keep crossing the letters too much to make it fun, Len reads them aloud to him, sound effects and all.

“Man, the library says _Snow White_ hadn’t even come out in 1936,” Len marvels. “You know that? _Snow White_ , man. That’s like the first ever Disney.”

“No, it ain’t,” Mick objects. “Disney’s the one with the shorts, ain’t it? Steamboat Willy. Silly Symphonies. Three Little Pigs.”

“Mick,” Len says solemnly. “You _break my heart_.”

“I sometimes watch that Disney stuff when they’re on the rec room TV,” Mick says, pouting. “I ain’t totally uncultured. S’just hard to remember stuff from after you’re dead, s’all.”

“You’re running out of life,” Len says, because he’s heard of it happening before. “Ghosts stick around because of what happened _during_ their life, and they only remember what happened afterwards if they’ve got enough left over for it – you sure I can’t give you some?”

“ _No_ , Lenny,” Mick says, long-suffering.

Len sulks, and introduces Mick to Alice in Wonderland the next time the rec room’s free.

Probably a tactical error, since Mick shouts, “Off with their heads!” the next fifteen times he dukes it out with the unquiet dead, but hey, it’s _funny_.

\--

“How’d you die?” Len asks one day, when he’s only got two weeks left to go in juvie, studying a deck of cards he’d lifted from a fellow student.

“Why do you want to know?” Mick asks, suddenly guarded.

“’cause I’m a nosy bastard,” Len says, since he can’t explain why he _actually_ wants to know, which is that he wants to give Mick a gift. The dead carry on them what died when they died – clothing, stuff in their pockets, that sort of stuff. But Len’s found that if stuff ‘dies’ the same way a ghost does, he can hand it to the ghost and they can keep it. 

He hopes it’s not something too weird. He doesn’t want to have to hang a deck of cards, or electrocute it, or have it get run over by a herd of chickens or something.

…that last one would be hilarious, though.

Mick grunts.

“Please?” Len says, which is rare enough that Mick gives him a suspicious look. “Not like I’m gonna tell anyone.”

Mick stays silent a few minutes longer, and then, abruptly, he gets up.

Len blinks up at him.

“Fire,” Mick says. “I died in a fire.” And then he disappears.

Len scowls in the direction of Mick’s ghostly self. He didn’t feel any passing-on-ness, or whatever you call it when a ghost kicks the bucket for good, so Mick’s just gone somewhere else to sulk because heaven forbid Len tries to learn some personal info about the guy beyond what type of breakfast he prefers (answer: corn mush with milk, or yesterday’s bread crusts – ick!).

On the other hand, it did give Len a bit of an opportunity.

Fire, huh? 

Sounds like an unpleasant way to die, but at least it makes giving Mick stuff easier. Lifting a lighter from the guard that likes to smoke is easy enough, and finding a nice shady corner on top of lots of concrete to minimize excess burning is even easier.

Now he just needs Mick.

“Mick?” he asks the air.

No reply. 

“Mick, you still sulking?”

Nothing.

“Mick, I could be being attacked _right now_. I’m not, but I _could be_.”

Zip.

Len contemplates pretending to die, but that seems a bit melodramatic.

“Hey! Mickey Mouse!”

Still nothing.

Hmm, and Len was sure that that would get him a punch in the face…

Mick couldn’t be _gone_ , could he?

Len swallows. He _really_ hopes Mick’s not gone. He knows that's wrong - you're supposed to hope that ghosts move on, not want them to stay - but he doesn't. He doesn't want Mick to go. 

“Hey, Lunatic!” Tommy, one of the more annoying juvie kids, shouts. “Lost your imaginary friend?”

Len grits his teeth.

“Bet he left you ‘cause you were wasting his time,” Tommy taunts. “Poor kooky kid, what’ll he do all on his own?”

It’s just close enough to Len’s real fears that Len ends up punching Tommy in the face.

And then, as expected, spending the next ten minutes getting punched back by Tommy and his friends. And kicked. And –

Okay, the guards really should be intervening. _Any time now_.

“Hey, hold him down,” Evan Richards says. Evan Richards, never just Evan; he’s the sort of kid that would be – should be – exiled to the crazy person table, but he’s rich and his parents send him loads of treats, so he’s not. He’s got a big old grin on his face that Len doesn’t trust a jot. 

“Why?” Tommy says skeptically. “He’s not getting up on his own anytime soon.”

Probably not true – Len’s a stubborn bastard – but closer than he’d like to admit.

Evan Richards’s grin widens. “I’ve always wanted to see what one of these does,” he says, and pulls out a little Swiss army contraption, used mostly for clipping or filing nails, that he’s sharpened well past any reasonable amount.

He’d probably call it a knife, Evan Richards would, but to people like Len, it’s called a shiv.

_Shit_.

“ _Mick_!” Len screams, because he doesn’t trust the guards but Mick’s always come to help him before – if he’s still here.

The returning bellow of rage is the finest sound Len’s ever heard, right up there with Lisa’s first word (‘up’, as it happens; nothing but the best for his demanding little darling). 

But Mick’s a ghost, barely even an apparition, and though he charges the fuckers that are holding Len down, he can’t do anything, just passes straight through, causing no more than a slight chill and a shudder.

“Mick, _please_ ,” Len says, struggling and kicking and keeping Richards back, just long enough, just long enough to get a hand free and reach out –

“God, he’s nuts,” Tommy laughs, and the others laughs with him. “Go for it – waste the cuckoo – no one’ll care –”

Mick reaches out and takes Len’s hand in his, and Len _pushes_ , hard, with all the spare life he’s got in him. 

Mick _yowls_ , and Len can feel it too, like a zap from touching a live wire or a burst of static electricity, but then Mick’s _there_ and all the kids are turning to look, shouting in surprise and demanding to know where the hell Mick came from and then Mick puts his fist into Evan Richards’ smirking face. 

Three black eyes and a hell of a lot of bruises later, the gang breaks up and flees.

“Thanks,” Len pants. He’s pretty damn sore, and it’s only gonna get worse, but he has to find out if Mick’s okay – Mick, who didn’t want the extra power – the extra life – 

“Holy crap,” Mick says, staring down at his hands. “I _felt_ that. _They_ felt that. That was – Len?”

“You angry at me?” Len asks. He’s feeling weirdly dizzy, the way you get if you haven’t eaten for three days and then you go sprinting from the cops. Everything hurts, but distantly, like he can’t really feel it.

“Angry – no, it’s not – Len, you’re looking real pale, you feeling okay?”

“Peachy,” Len says, and passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed in the nurse’s station, and Mick’s scowling at him from the next bed over.

Len’s got an IV.

Why’s he got an IV?

“Mick, why’ve I got an IV?” he asks.

Mick’s eye twitches.

“Uh,” Len says. “Mick?”

“ _That’s_ your first question?!” Mick roars.

“…yes?” Len says helplessly. “What, should I’ve started with ‘how are you’?”

Mick looks like he's considering strangling Len.

"I'm sorry," Len offers. Might as well get that out, if Mick’s already mad.

"What?" Mick says, annoyance disappearing into confusion. "Sorry for what?"

"For, you know," Len says, shrugging. "Prying. And sharing my life when you've been real clear you didn't want me to be sharing with you."

Mick stares at him for a long moment. "Len," he says eventually. "It ain't – you don't think it's _your fault_ that I ain't taking bits of your life, do you?"

Well, when Mick says it in that incredulous tone, it sounds kinda dumb.

Len focuses on picking at the band-aid over the IV entry point on the inside of his elbow instead of replying, even though he knows that only reveals his guilt.

"Lenny, stop that," Mick says. "You need the IV."

"You never did say what it was for," Len says.

"It's to keep you _alive_ , you nimrod. You nearly shoved all the life you had left up my goddamn arm."

"If Richards got me with the shiv, I wouldn't've had any life left to give," Len points out, but yeah, he distinctly remembers overdoing it in his panic. "S'that why I pass out like that?"

"That's why you swooned like a leading lady," Mick confirms.

Len glares. " _Passed out_ , Mick."

"Whatever. Len – It ain't that I don't like you, or your life, or even having some of it myself, 'cause lemme tell you, being practically solid's been pretty awesome so far – "

"You're practically _solid_?" Len interrupts. "I ain't never done that before – "

" _Lenny_. Lemme finish. This is important."

Len shuts up.

"Anyway," Mick says. "What I mean to say is – I mean – oh, damnit. Len, I don't _deserve_ any of your life."

"You just _saved_ my life," Len says, unable to keep quiet. "Just as you've been doing this past month – "

"I started the fire!" Mick shouts. "I'm a firebug, and I knew it was bone dry, and I started that fire anyways, and that’s why everybody died! It was all my fault! I don't deserve _nothing_!"

"Oh," Len says blankly.

"Yeah," Mick says savagely, wiping at his face to clean up what they'd both pretend weren't tears when this was over. "So that's why."

Len nods. He's not sure what to say. He doesn't think anything will help a wound so deep that Mick became a ghost over it.

"I've heard of it before," he offers eventually. "Pyromania, it's called."

"What's that?"

"It's – " Len tries to remember. "It's a thing that happens to people, some chemical goes wrong in their brain, and then they start needing to light fires. Like an anxiety thing – can't calm down until there's a fire."

Mick frowns. “There’s a word for it?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “People that can’t help themselves around fires. It’s a medical thing.”

Mick looks stunned.

“What, thought it was just you?” Len jokes, except the look on Mick’s face kinda says that he did. “No, Mick, it ain’t you, if I’m right. It’s a – it’s a thing that happens sometimes, and no one’s to blame, you know. Sometimes people’s brains break, just like any bone, and you need medicine or something like that for it.”

“I still lit the fire,” Mick says, but he seems a little less burdened. “After they told me not to and everything. And even if I didn’t have a choice, I still should’ve warned ‘em about it.”

“That’s on you,” Len says, because people who say it’s not your fault when it is just make you feel worse. “But the fire thing, that ain’t –”

“How are you boys doing?” the nurse says, sweeping in. 

“Fine,” Len says automatically, before realizing what she’d said.

He turns to stare at Mick. “ _Boys_?” he mouths at him. What was with the plural?

“Told you I was near solid,” Mick mutters. “Hi, ma’am,” he says to the nurse.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Rory? You were having quite a fit out there.”

“Much better, ma’am.”

“We’ve alerted the police about your being here,” she continues briskly. “Since your name isn’t on the list.”

Len’s eyes go real wide at that.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mick says tranquilly. 

“And you, Mr. Snart, how are you feeling?”

“Uh,” Len says. “Okay?”

“Do you need more medicine?”

“Yes,” Len says, because the answer is always yes. Even if you don’t actually need it, you can always sell it. 

Also, he’s kinda sore. All over. Everywhere. 

Actually, it hurts a _lot_. Fuzzy and distant, like he’s got good drugs going on, but still not good.

“Is anything gonna happen to the kids what did it?” Mick asks. “Evan Richards and Tommy and the rest of ‘em?”

The nurse looks slightly uncomfortable. “They’ll be punished,” she says, but Len can tell she means that they’ll be slapped on the wrist, at most. Maybe a bit of time in detention instead of out on the school yard.

Well, good enough for Len. He never did trust anyone to give out punishment on his behalf; he’ll figure out a way to pay them back himself later on.

That’s not what’s important right now.

Len waits until the nurse checks them both over and leaves.

“ _Mick_ ,” he hisses. "They can _see you_!"

“Told you!”

“What are we gonna _do_? Your name’s not gonna be on _any_ records! Not any they’re gonna check, anyway!”

“Don’t worry,” Mick says. “It’s fine. It’s fading away already, since you gave it to me all in one shot – look, I’m practically able to go through the bed again. Another day - another couple of hours - and I’ll be back to being invisible if I wanna be.”

“If you wanna be? You’ll still be a full-powered manifestation?”

“You gave me a _lot_ of life, Lenny,” Mick says disapprovingly.

Len shrugs, then brightens and checks his pockets. Good, they didn’t take the cards, or the lighter. “Here,” he says, holding them out. “Burn this.”

Mick stares at him.

“What?”

“I tell you I’m a pyro- a pyro-many – that I’m a firebug, and you _gimme_ something to burn?”

“You died in a fire,” Len says reasonably. “If you burn the cards, you’ll be able to carry ‘em with you as a ghost, even once all the life’s gone.”

Mick’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Really. They gotta die with you, or something. Same way you died. Anyways, if you’re a pyromaniac, you’ll enjoy watching them burn, too.”

“That’s what you wanted me to come ‘round for, wasn’t it?” Mick asks, looking guilty. 

“It’s fine,” Len says, pushing the cards and lighter into Mick’s hands. “Really – say, how much life I give you, anyway?”

“Why?” Mick asks, pulling the cards and lighter close and cradling them.

“Well – and you don’t gotta do this if you don’t wanna, but – how bound would you say you are to this place?”

Mick blinks.

“I want you to come home with me,” Len clarifies.

Mick’s eyes go wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an extra-long first chapter to get us started. All comments welcome and appreciated!


	3. 2

"—and this is Lisa," Len finishes proudly. "Say hi, Lisa!"

"Hi," Lisa says automatically, then wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms. "Who's it I'm saying hi to, Lenny?"

"My friend Mick," Len says, elbowing Mick.

Mick grunts and manifests. It comes just as a slight shimmer to Len's eyes, but he can tell it works when Lisa's eyes go wide. She's real impressed by Mick appearing out of nowhere.

"Are you magic?" she asks eagerly, clapping her hands together.

"No," Mick says. "Your big brother is, though."

"Cool!" 

"Mick!" Len exclaims. He hadn't really discussed the whole curse thing with his baby sister, and he's not exactly planning on starting anytime soon. She's practically still a baby! 

"What?" Mick says defensively. "It's true!"

"Lenny! I wanna see some magic!" Lisa crows, tugging at Len's shirt. "Show me! Show me!" 

"Hey, Lisey, wanna hear something awful?" Len says in a desperate attempt to distract her. "Something _real_ no-good, terrible-awful?"

Lisa's eyes go wide. "Not something bad?" she asks.

"No, not bad, _awful_ ," Len confirms. Mick looks confused, but that's fine. He's only been home a few minutes, Len hasn't had a chance to let him into the code – 'bad' means dad-related stuff, stuff that hurts feelings and bruises skin and makes Len wake up screaming sometimes, while 'awful' refers to sillier stuff, bad stuff that isn't something Lisa has to personally worry about.

Other people's problems, basically. 

Sure enough, Lisa's leaning forward conspiratorially, whispering, "What? What is it, Lenny? Tell me!" because kids that age are little brats that thrive on the suffering of others. 

And Lisa, of course, is as morbid as any kid her age.

Len looks both ways, overplaying it like a Looney Tunes character until Lisa giggles, and then whispers loudly, "Mick ain't never had chocolate."

"No!" Lisa says, aghast. "Not _any_? Not even the cheap stuff?"

"I've had gum," Mick protests. "And licorice. Chocolate was just expensive, s'all."

"Oh, _no_ ," Lisa says. "You're right, Lenny; that's real awful." She shoots him a sneaky glance from under her eyelashes. "We gotta go to the ice cream parlor after my skating lesson and get him a sundae."

"Lisa –" Len starts.

"Pleeeeeeease?" Lisa says, batting her eyelashes. "For Mick, please?"

Len – who'd been thinking more along the lines of splitting the candy bar he lifted on the way home – folds like the pack of cards that sits proudly in Mick's pocket.

Mick smirks.

He smirks all the way through Lisa's skating practice, where they take advantage of there being two of them to holler and cheer every time Lisa lands a jump, much to her embarrassment and not-so-well-hidden pleasure, and all the way to the ice cream parlor, which is just a diner and not a real parlor at all.

Still has damn good hot fudge sundaes, though.

"Holy crap," Mick says, awed. "Holy _crap_."

"I think we broke him," Len says to Lisa, smugly wielding his own spoon.

"This is even better than it looked like it was!"

Len laughs.

It's definitely worth spending what little money he'd managed to pick outta pockets on the way here to make Mick and Lisa so happy. 

They don't get to do that stuff, stuff that makes 'em happy, all that often.

Mick spends most of his time at home invisible, because it's easier on both of them – Len finds he doesn't need to spend all that much life on keeping Mick as a manifestation, now that he's already basically there – but that does mean Len has to be super careful when his dad comes back, because his dad _can't_ be allowed to figure out who or what Mick is, or even see him hanging around too often. If Len's dad figures anything out, or even if he just figures out that Mick's a friend of Len's, he'll find a way to make Len pay for it. Len's explained this to Mick, all reasonable and all, and Mick eventually swallowed it, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

Mick doesn't like Len's dad, neither.

He doesn't like him at _all_.

"I'm gonna burn _him_ ," Mick growls. “And I won’t regret it, not a second, not at all.” 

Len shakes his head.

"Don't do that," he says, dabbing at his bleeding lip. He doesn't even know what he did this time, or maybe it weren't anything at all, just his dad being mad and needed a body nearby to hit to get it out of his system. Doesn't really matter to Len; the important thing is that he took his lips without bawling like a baby - that only pissed Lewis off more - and now it's over. "Lisa needs him or else she'll go into the system, and that'll be worse."

Mick growls, but agrees, since apparently the system was even worse back when he was alive.

Doesn't stop him from throwing things around behind Lewis' back, poltergeist style, in order to try to distract him from Len.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it just pisses Lewis off more, but Len appreciates the thought.

"You know you don't gotta, right?" he asks Mick.

"I'm here to protect you," Mick says firmly.

"From _ghosts_."

"From _anything_ ," Mick insists. "I'm gonna follow him around a bit, make him think he's haunted. Drop things, rearrange things – make his life a paranoid hell –"

"Mick – "

"I know I don't _gotta_ do it, Lenny. I _wanna_ do it."

"Let him," Lisa advises. She's got a nasty hand-grab mark on her upper arm that Len is currently icing – he got there in time to get the next few on his back instead of hers, but not to spare her that first grab. Lisa's eyes are shining and wet, but she's stopped crying and moved on to being upset. And when Lisa gets upset, she gets mean and vengeful. "You go get him, Mick."

"I still need you to walk Lisa to school tomorrow," Len tells Mick, rolling his eyes at both of them. "First things first."

"I'm gonna scare the shit out of your dad," Mick tells Lisa.

She giggles.

Len lets the argument go because she's smiling, and she's almost never smiling this soon after one of their dad's rages.

He does eventually tell Mick to knock it off, 'cause his dad too damn thick to be properly paranoid, and when he is scared he just gets more violent, so it doesn't quite work out the way they'd like. 

But it was a nice thought. 

Having Mick around is better than Len could've ever imagined, honestly. He ain't never had anyone like Mick before, except maybe his mom; Len feels a bit bad for saying it, though, but Mick's even _better_. Len's mom had her own issues that she had to focus on, but Mick's only concern is Len, and Len loves having that. Having someone to keep an eye on Len's energy levels, telling him when he can give some life away and when he ought not; warding away the unquiet ghosts with a fervor that makes Len think of bar fights, the fun type; having someone to share the load of raising Lisa with, taking her to school when Len has to do jobs with his dad, watching her when Len can't. It's like having another version of himself around to lend a hand, except better, because Mick knows plenty of things Len doesn't, and he doesn't mind doing 'em, either. It works great, even if Mick _is_ invisible half the time, either to conserve energy or to keep out of sight from Lewis.

It's great.

No, not just great. It's the best thing that's ever happened to Len, excluding Lisa. 

Besides, all that's not to mention the fact that introducing Mick to the modern world, one he’s only seen through the lens of prison and later juvie, is just fantastic on all levels. Len loves doing it, even when it takes time and energy and planning to get the time and the money for it; it's always worth it. Mick's amazed face never ceases to make Len smile, and there's just so much about the world to share with him. Take movies. Mick had movies, sure, back in his day, but modern day movies absolutely blow Mick's mind. Takes him a while longer to warm up to the music, since he thinks most of it's claptrap until he's heard it a dozen times already. And television! Television is Mick's new best friend. Well, second to Len, anyway. 

But nothing, _nothing_ , compares to the sheer glee Mick has every time they go to the supermarket.

“Look at that,” he says, jabbing at Len’s ribs. “ _Look at it_ , Len! Look at all the greens!”

“I see ‘em,” Len says indulgently. No matter how many times they go, Mick never gets over seeing so much fresh food all available and ready to eat – he grew up on a farm, yes, but to nobody's surprise it turns out the freaking _Dust Bowl_ wasn’t a really great time for farming. 

“Get one!”

“Mick.”

“ _Len_.”

“I only got so much money, okay? And I can’t five-finger-discount a freaking _head of lettuce_.”

“You could if you tried,” Mick says, crossing his arms and pouting. “You can steal diamonds for your dad, you can steal lettuce for me.”

“It ain’t the same –”

“Like hell it ain’t.”

“We don’t even _eat_ green stuff.”

“And that’s a _problem_.”

"It takes thirty minutes even to get to the store!"

"Took you longer to get to your last heist," Mick points out, and damnit, he has a point there. 

“But –”

“Oh, c'mon, Lenny! Please?”

And turns out Len's just crap at saying no to Mick, just the way he's crap at saying no to Lisa. 

This is how Len ends up sneaking into the fancy grocery store after hours and lifting _produce_ on his otherwise day off. He suspects somewhere along the line the balance of power between him and Mick got messed up.

But it’s fun, actually; he’s never run a heist that he planned himself with people (Mick) he relied on, and who could actually be counted to do what they’re told, when they’re told. 

They start running a few side jobs – ATMs, stick-ups, that sort of thing – and end up bringing in enough money to actually buy the fruit and veggies and stuff that Mick lusts after, even after accounting for Lisa’s skating lessons and all the other stuff.

Best of all, Mick _cooks_ it, too. He’s already practically a magician at making tasty food out of things that cost virtually nothing, but once Len gets him a few cookbooks – Mick insists on torching them so he’ll be able to read them even when he doesn’t have enough juice to be solid, since he reads slow on account of his trouble with letters; they’ve found that Mick doing the torching both does the job of transferring them to the ghostly plane better and is much more emotionally satisfying for Mick – he starts expanding his repertoire. 

“I like Brussels sprouts,” Len says blankly, staring at his empty plate with occasional glances at the still half-full serving bowl filled with green stuff he'd had to nearly be blackmailed to even try. “Lisa, what the hell just happened?”

“I know,” she says, equally bemused. “Ain’t they supposed to be, like, evil?”

“Not when they’re made right,” Mick says smugly. He holds up the serving bowl and wields a serving spoon like a sword. “More?”

“…yes, please.”

In other words, they get along just great most of the time. 

Still, living with Mick's not without some small disputes, though, even putting aside the big one about Len’s dad.

"Wish I were bigger," Mick grumbles one evening. "People keep thinking I'm a target."

"Why don't you go invisible?"

"I forget to," Mick admits, shrugging. "Sometimes I do. It'd make fighting the ghosts easier, though, if I were bigger."

"I don't think size matters among the ghosts," Len says, and it's true, it really doesn't – scariest ghost he ever met was an angry little kid no older than five when he died – but Mick shrugs again.

He drops the subject then, changes to talk about something else, but he doesn't drop it, not really. It starts to come up more often, until it's coming up once every few weeks like clockwork over the next six months.

There's always a new reason, and usually a bad one –

"I could reach the higher shelves if I were bigger," Mick points out. 

"You’re a _ghost_. You can _float_!" Len exclaims.

– and eventually, meaning after Lisa gives Len a lecture about being self-centered and not paying attention to Mick's emotional needs, Len ends up taking Mick aside and saying, "Okay, what is it really?"

"What do you mean?" Mick says, because he's like a turtle – always retreating into his shell at the first sign of people paying attention to him. Drives Len up the wall, but in that fond sorta way where he kinda thinks of it as a classic Mick trait. 

"Why do you want to get bigger?" Len asks, because he might be bad at feelings and talking things out, but he isn't that stupid. This is clearly important to Mick for some reason, and he's gonna find out what that reason is, if only so that Mick'll stop bothering him about it. "And don't give me the 'fighting ghosts' or 'scaring adults better' or 'reaching shelves' or 'checking out of school' excuses – " though that last one had been somewhat compelling "– I wanna know the _real_ reason."

Mick shifts awkwardly. Len can tell that he's gone invisible – he does that when he's uncomfortable – but it doesn't help him against Len's eyes. Len can always see him unless Mick's deliberately trying to hide himself. 

Len crosses his arms. "Well?" he prods. "I won't hold it against you, promise."

"It ain't that..."

"Then it's embarrassing or something? What, you always wanted to play pro ball or – "

"You're gonna grow up and leave me behind," Mick blurts out all at once.

"...what?"

"You're getting bigger. Little by little, but you're gonna grow up and I'm gonna be a little kid and you're not gonna have any use for me. And then I'm gonna have to go back to juvie and be alone with the asshole ghosts and no one will talk to me and – "

"Whoa, whoa!" Len says, holding up his hands to stem the tide of anxiety just pouring out of Mick.

Maybe he should've gone with his instincts and talked to Mick about this earlier, before it got this bad. Even if he did hate talking about feelings. 

Len studies Mick, who looks miserable.

Yeah. Definitely need to head this off next time.

"Okay," he says. "First off, I wouldn't send you back even if you didn't grow, even if you were useless – which you're _not_ – no matter what. Got it?"

He glares until Mick nods. It's not entirely believable, but whatever, Len'll take it.

"Second, that's a perfectly good reason for wanting to get bigger. Let's try it out."

"Really?"

"Sure," Len says. "Better than anything else you've come up with, anyway. Let's see what I can do, yeah? No promises if it's even possible, but what the hell. Worth a shot."

It's mostly worth a shot because it'll make Mick stop being unhappy.

So Len tries. 

It takes some serious effort, more than he's ever done before; there's a lot he doesn't know about his powers, a lot he doesn't _want_ to know, and most of the time he just wings it and it goes fine, but sometimes, like now, when he needs to try something new, it's annoying. He makes Mick solid by accident half a dozen times, each one followed by needing to eat and sleep a whole bunch extra, before he figures out the trick of it – pushing the life not just _at_ Mick, but sort of forward _from_ him, adding ghost-life as well as real-life. 

It's time-consuming and energy-consuming, but in the end it turns out that Mick's a damn fine eighteen year old, or at least he would've been. 

"You say you've got no control over how I look?" Mick asks, staring in the mirror.

"I don't think so," Len says doubtfully, though he kind of wonders. Mick’s grown up body is _just_ his type. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Mick? Yeah, whatever; Len's not thinking about that, no sir. "I just push a bit, really."

"Yeah, I mean, it's just, I look just like my old man. No – like my grandpa, actually; I saw an old daguerreotype of him when he was younger. That's better."

"Well, that's something," Len says, then frowns. "You think I'll end up looking like _my_ old man when I’m older?"

Mick gives him a droll look. "No, Len," he says. "I don't think so."

"How's that?"

"'cause you barely look a thing like him _now_."

"Huh. Okay. That's good."

"Figured as much."

"Still," Len says, putting the issue aside. "At least we know it works!"

Then he goes out and tries it out on half a dozen friendly ghosts – friendly meaning they ask him for permission, not necessarily friendly to the outside world – who are all kids who regret not having seen what it was like as a 'grown up'. He'd never thought he'd be able to do anything about them before, but now he has this brand new skill, and, well, why not? If it'll make 'em happy, and he can... 

Mick ends up literally picking Len up and dragging him back home to bed before he overstretches himself. Len doesn't remember giving Mick that much energy, but he admits – after a good long nap and some food and some more napping – that maybe Mick's got something of a point about the amount he was doing.

Maybe.

Okay, Len got a bit over-excited and way overdid it. So sue him. 

Anyway, the kid ghosts are pleased as punch by it, half of them passing-on right away after a day as an adult, and the rest do some real damage to the next unquiet ghost that tries to get handsy.

All in all, things are going pretty well.

But things like that never last.


	4. 3

"Len, _shit_ – Len – _Lenny_ \- look at me, Len – "

Len blinks.

Everything's blurry.

"Len? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Len says, but even he can hear that it comes out slurred and wrong. "Lisey?"

"She's safe. God. What happened?"

Len can't seem to see Mick. "Mick? Where are you?"

"Can't you see me?"

"Uh-uh."

"Shit. Okay. Len, do you think you can get up?"

Len shakes his head, which turns out to be a mistake because now he's super nauseous. And his head hurts, a dull throb of pain that he's distantly aware of but feels somehow removed from. 

"Okay. Okay. We can deal with this. We can – goddamnit! Len. _Len_. I'm – I'm not solid enough to grab the phone; I used up too much earlier."

"Oh," Len says. He's not sure why that's important. He can give Mick more later, can't he? "Okay?"

"No! No, it's not okay! You're going to _bleed to death_ on the goddamn kitchen floor because I can't call for help!"

Bleed to - is Len bleeding?

Is that why everything is so blurry?

He tries to look at his hands, but there's a lurch of nausea and his eyes slip closed.

"Len!"

Why is he bleeding?

Len tries to remember. There was – his dad, yes, and – 

The Santinis. Len's dad had invited them over, a whole group of them; they were financing one of his jobs, something complicated that Len can't remember now. He'd wanted to make a good impression, make it out like he was worth respecting, so he'd invited them home, gotten Len to serve them beer. It'd been Don Tomio Santini, the scary big boss of Central City, though he's been getting older and in declining health so that the other Families were starting to try to start testing his borders. Yes, Len remembers now, he’d been there, and his sons - future Dons, if Tomio had anything to say about it - had been there, too. 

It’d been one of his sons that had put his hands on Len as he came through the room. Len had automatically recoiled, more instinct than thought, and then that one had smashed the beer bottle over Len's head. 

The Don had laughed. 

They'd all laughed. 

Now that he thinks about it, that may be why everything hurts. He's gotten hurt before, so he knows something of what it's like, but this is different. This pain is everywhere, in his head, in his stomach, making him sick. His ears are ringing, everything is muted – shock, he guesses –

He can't see Mick. 

Shit, if Mick's visible and he can't see him – has he lost the ability? Is that even _possible_? It shouldn't be possible, it's his family curse, but he still _can't see Mick_.

He hasn't heard him for the last few minutes, either. What if he's wrong? What if it goes away, if he loses it? What if he loses the ability entirely? Loses _Mick_ entirely?

"Mick?" Len says, and he can hear how high and wavering his voice is. Like a child. His dad would call it pathetic. "Mick! _Mick!_ "

"Lenny!" he hears, but it's not Mick. It's Lisa, and she sounds upset, and he should stop shouting and care for her like the good big brother he always tries to be but he can't. He _can't_. Not when Mick - when -

"Mick!" he tries to shout, but he's slurring, he's not loud enough – he can't draw enough breath for a proper shout, his lungs burning even on shallow pulls of air. But he has to shout. He can't lose Mick – he can't, he can't, he _can't_ – Mick – If he loses Mick, he loses everything – no support, no help, no _Mick_ – he'll be all alone again, just him and the ghosts – he can't do it, he can't go back to how it was - he can't lose him, he can't lose - "Mick!"

"Lenny, oh god - let me call the hospital - "

He doesn't _want_ Lisey right now. He wants _Mick_.

"Mick!"

"Len?" 

Len has never been so happy to hear his friend's gruff, low voice. "Mick," he whispers. "You're still here."

"Of course I'm still here," Mick says, even though Len can't see him. Maybe it's because his eyes keep closing? "I'd never leave you – god – if we make it through this, this is _never_ going to happen again, I swear, even if I have to grab parts of your life myself – I _swear_ –"

"I thought you were gone," Len says, and he knows he sounds like a child, needy and overwhelmed, but he can't seem to stop himself. "You were gone."

"I was getting Lisa," Mick says. His voice sounds distant, blurry, just like everything is blurry. Maybe it’s the shock. "She's calling for an ambulance."

"Dad doesn't like it when we go to the hospital..."

"Fuck your dad," Mick snarls. "If he'd been even a _bit_ of the father he ought to be, you wouldn't be bleeding out on the goddamn kitchen floor – "

Mick sounds upset. 

"Am I dying?"

"No!" Mick exclaims, but there's fear in his voice.

"It's okay if I am," Len tries to comfort him. Sure, it's early for it, far too early for it, but he knew he'd have to go eventually. "I got to meet you, so it's okay."

"It is _not_ okay! It's not okay at all!"

"Mick," Len says, and he feels everything going black, and that's – that's not good – he has to – he never _told_ Mick – Mick doesn’t know, and he deserves to know - deserves to find out – "Mick, I – I – I've got – gotta tell you - got feelings – I mean - I've got 'em – about you – "

"Don't you _dare_ ," Mick says, and his voice is low and tight and harsh. "You can't say it now, Len; you have to wait till you wake up. You can’t spit out shit like that right before you go. You have to tell me good and proper, Lenny, but you can only do that when you’re all woken up and okay again, and if you don’t wake up, you’re gonna regret not telling me real big. You’ve got things you need to do. You’ve gotta tell me whatever it is you want to tell me. You’ve gotta take care of Lisa. Okay? I need you to think about all the things you have left to do, all the things you regret not doing. Okay? Can you think of that?"

"Okay," Len says, because Mick sounds so serious. Mick never thinks anyone takes him seriously, unless he's using his fists, but Len does. Len listens to him. 

Len can listen now.

But everything is so dark...

He wakes up in a hospital bed. Mick’s in the bed right beside him.

This is becoming a pattern. 

Well, it worked out pretty well for them once.

“Mick,” he croaks. “Why’ve I got an IV?”

“I’m gonna _kill_ you, you little fuckhead,” Mick replies, but he sounds distinctly relieved instead of wrathful.

Oh, good. Len’s going to be fine.

“Should I have said ‘how are you’ first?” Len continues, then has to stop, because his throat hurts. 

“Fuck, Len,” Mick says, floating over to the hospital bed and putting his face down on Len’s belly. His shoulders are shaking. “I was so scared. They said you had shards of _glass_ in your _skull_.”

“Sorry,” Len says, humor disappearing. “I must’ve given you a hell of a scare.”

“Like you wouldn’t imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine,” Len says grimly. He remembers how horrified he was at the thought of Mick disappearing on him, at not being able to see or hear him, or worse, never being able to tell him –

Wait.

“Hey!” Len exclaims, brain finally revving up enough to put two and two together. “You were trying to ghost me!”

“Better than you dying all the way,” Mick says unapologetically. “If you’d got some regrets, you’d be able to stick around longer. I’d be able to pass along any words you needed to for Lisa and stuff, at least until the juice you gave me ran out entirely.”

“And _then_ what?” Len says skeptically. As nice as the idea of hanging around all ghostly with Mick is, Len's family doesn’t ever actually turn into ghosts. Len knows his mom would've stuck around for him if she could, and she couldn't, so that probably means they never go ghost. He's pretty sure Mick didn't know about that, or he would've been even more panicky than he was already, if that's even possible. 

Besides, Len doesn't actually much fancy the idea of being stuck as a ghost. Ghosts are supposed to move on, not stick around. 

“Then we’d pass on together,” Mick says, as if it’s that simple.

Len swallows. “Together?”

“I guess I haven’t made it clear enough these last couple of years,” Mick says, wrinkling his nose. “Though I don’t know how. I’m here for the long run, Lenny. I’ll be at your side if you want me there, and I’ll follow you like a dog even if you don’t.”

“I’ll always want you there,” Len says, because he’s still woozy on pain-killers and near-death.

That’s the only reason. Really.

Mick grins crookedly. “You say that now –”

Oh for the love of God. Fuck the excuses.

“I say that _always_ ,” Len says fiercely. “Always and forever. You know perfectly well what I was trying to say before I nearly died –”

“You just passed out again because of the concussion. Doc says it wasn’t that serious; it’s just that head wounds bleed like a stuck pig –”

“ _Nearly died_ –”

“And I’m not going to hold you to that anyway –”

“I ain’t _never_ letting you go, Mick,” Len finally exclaims. “Never and ever, not at all, even if I have to open the black book and _pull you out of Heaven_ myself. You get me?”

Mick blinks. “Black book?”

Oops.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Len says, but Mick’s looking curious and wondering and if Len _doesn’t_ tell him, well, maybe he’ll get his feelings hurt and, sure, Len believes him when he says he’ll stick around – maybe – but, well, when Len’s mom told him never to tell a ghost, she surely didn’t mean _Mick_. Mick's different. “It’s a book of dead things.”

“Like, a bad book?”

“No, no, it ain’t _bad_. It’s – okay. God’s got three books, right? The book of life and the book of death and the book of in-between, and each living person’s name is in there, at least until they get blotted out," Len says. "Blotted out meaning death." 

Mick nods, looking fascinated. 

"Anyway, so all the good guys go in the book of life, right and if they get blotted out they go straight up to Heaven like whoosh." Len demonstrates with a gesture. "Now, the bad guys – real bad guys, the awful, unforgivable ones, not people like you and me – they go in the book of death, and when they're blotted out, they're just blotted right out. And the book of in-between’s the rest of us poor bastards, and God’ll make a call about how much time we spend kicking our heels feeling sorry for ourselves after we pass on before we get to go join him. You follow me okay?”

“Think so. God makes a call about where we go when we die?”

“No, no, it’s a new list every year, y’see – he opens the book on New Years and he closes it on Atonement Day, that's Yom Kippur, and you’ve got the time in between to be as good as you can be, you know, to try to push yourself into the book of life. Nudge yourself over the line. You got until Atonement Day to do it; s'why you ask forgiveness from everyone and be all good and shit right around then. The goal's to get in God’s good graces in case you die later that year, y’know?”

“Huh. Okay. So basically what you're saying is, you and your mom, your God’s like an accountant or something, except for life and death? Gotta admit I wouldn’t have called that one."

Len rolls his eyes at Mick, who grins. 

"So the black book," Mick continues. "That’s the book of the dead?”

“ _No_ ," Len says, because that's ridiculous. As if _Mick_ would ever be put in the book of the dead. "The black book’s the shadow.”

“What?”

“It’s something my mom told me,” Len says, shrugging. “She says – she said – that it ain’t in the Talmud or the Mishnah proper, the black book, it's not like something regular Jews believe in or know about. That's ‘cause it’s a special story, just for our family. We ain't supposed to tell no one else.”

“And you’re telling me?”

“You’re family, Mick,” Len says firmly. If there's one thing he's sure of, it's that. “The black book – okay, so I told you the name of all the living is in one of God’s three books, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the black book’s where all the _dead_ names go.”

"Thought they got blotted out?"

"Yeah, blotted out of the three other books, and then they go in the black book."

“Why’s there only one?”

“Because the dead are the _dead_ , Mick. They’re in God’s hands and in his presence; he don’t need separate books to remember ‘em all.”

“But if he’s omniscient –”

“Just _go with it_ , Mick," Len groans. "Some things are just how the story goes, okay?"

“Fine, fine. So if you pull someone out of the black book –”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Len says. “Not _ever_. Ghosts want you to, if they know about it, but you _don’t_. It’s – it’s taking someone what’s passed on, and bringing them back.”

“You can _do_ that?”

“No, Mick, ain’t you listening? I _can’t_. I don’t know how. I mean, not _really_ , I got the idea, but I think it’s a life-for-a-life sort of deal, or at least a soul-for-a-life sorta deal, and even then it don’t usually work, anyway – ghosts are what we really work with best, my mom and my family and me. Either way, that’d be necromancy and that’s bad as shit gets when it comes to 'don’t do it' sorta rules, and we got a _lot_ of 'don't do it' sorta rules, so when I say it's the worst, it really means something. Doing shit like that's right out, at least unless you’re some sort of prophet.”

“But you’d try,” Mick says, understanding at last. “If it was me.”

“Yeah,” Len says. His mouth is dry and his throat hurts and he’d really like this conversation to be over. “If it were you. Because I need you by my side, Mick. I _need_ you. I –”

Shit, he can’t say it. Three stupid words, and his throat just won’t do it.

Mick reaches over and grabs Len’s hand. “Same for me,” he says roughly. “Same for me. I was raised a good Catholic boy, but I’d walk into Hell to bring you back if I had to, Lenny, and I wouldn’t blink twice.”

Len swallows hard, again, and smiles.

Can’t seem to _stop_ smiling, in fact.

“But one thing I wanna be clear on,” Mick says. “This shit ain’t _never_ happening again.”

“I can’t promise that I’ll never get hit on the head or –”

“No, not _that_. The bit where I couldn’t do anything ‘cause I’d used up all my juice,” Mick says. “I hate to ask it, and you know I hate it, but we’ve _gotta_ find a way to keep me solid more of the time.”

Len nods. It’s something he’s been thinking about, actually – when he realized he felt stupid things about Mick, real stupid things that his dad would kick his ass for even thinking about another boy, he started thinking about how he might be able to get Mick some freedom. He can’t bring Mick back for real – references to the black book or not – but if there was ever going to be any chance of having something _with_ Mick, it was going to have to be the sort of thing where they could split off from each other and be angry separately for a while. It’s just how relationships worked.

“Okay,” Len says. “I’ll find something.”

“Good,” Mick says. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What?”

“About those _feelings_ –”

“Mick!” Len yelps. He’d thought they’d implicitly agreed not to actually ever talk about it. They don't talk about _feelings_ ; it's not their style. 

Mick laughs, and leans forward to press his lips to Len’s.

Never mind. Len’s _all_ for this type of talking, or any type of talking at all if this is what talking leads to. Brand new convert to talking, Len is.

“I can hear you thinking,” Mick says. “Stop it and kiss me instead.”

Len is more than happy to obey.


	5. 4

The first time it happens, it's – kind of funny, actually. In retrospect, anyway.

"Don't you dare touch him," Mick growls from where he's standing by the door, glaring at where they’ve got Len all tied up. They being some Santini Family assholes who hired Len and Mick for a small job - nothing big, the main guy said, just need it done quick, don't want to get the Family name involved - and then decided they didn't feel like paying some freelancers for work they apparently should've been doing themselves. Sadly for them, Len's just smart enough not to have brought the goods with him and had no intention of giving said goods up until they coughed up the cash for them. 

Damnit, Len hates Family jobs. They shouldn't have taken it, he knows that, but it'd been such an easy job...

"And what exactly are you planning to do about it?" the main Santini asshole drawls, smug and confident now that he's got his people with him. 

"You'll touch him over my dead body," Mick says.

"Fine," the mobster sneers, and shoots Mick dead in the chest, the force of it making Mick stagger backwards and fall down to the floor.

"You fucking little – " Len shouts from the chair he's been tied to, eyes wide with terror, worried half to hell because he has no idea what happens when you make a ghost as solid and real as he's made Mick and then that stupid ghost goes and gets himself _shot_.

"Enough!" Santini snaps. "Or you're going to get a bullet yourself, Mr. Snart – "

"I told you," Mick rasps, and the entire room turns to look to see him standing back up. Mick makes a big production out of it, too, dragging his limbs up like he's in pain, like his joints are creaking, clutching at his chest, but he gets up, eyes fixed on Santini. "You'll touch him over my – dead – body –"

Santini shoots, but Mick takes a step forward. Another shot, another step.

The third bullet clicks to an empty chamber, and Santini just breaks, turning tail and running, each and every one of his men with him.

"You okay?" Len asks the second the last one is gone. He knows ghosts don’t feel things the way the living do, but he’s given Mick a _lot_ of life over the years…

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, I’m good. Stings like a Lisa special, nothing worse than that."

Lisa had once expressed her frustration with Mick by squeezing a lemon at him when he'd just cut his hand open in the kitchen and had been bleeding a little - more out of habit than anything else. Mick is never going to let her live it down.

"But you're okay?"

"All good, boss."

Len shakes his head, starting to grin. "Well," he says, biting his lips to keep from laughing. "Guess now they know you meant it about it being over your dead body."

Mick snorts.

The next time, they try shooting Mick in the head.

Of course, that doesn't work either - Mick confirms that lots of life or not, dead men don't feel pain the same way the living do, so it's all the same to him - but it does bring up some logistical issues. 

Mick wisely plays dead until Len gets them to go away, because there's reputation and then there's revelation, and the whole gang that tried it unanimously flip their lids in a most satisfying way the next time Len walks in, Mick trailing behind him, same as always, and both of them playing dumb as rocks about the whole alleged – it's their new favorite word after a stint in prison and the justice system - the whole _alleged_ murder thing.

Len's gotten Mick some damn fine fake papers, too, so the Fed threw them into the same prison, too. It was a learning experience.

Not one Len's all too eager to repeat. Mick got into fight after fight on Len's behalf, even with Len felling a few overly touchy guys personally. Next time, he's going to send Mick floating out the wall and get a quicker exit that way.

Mick's quasi-solid virtually all the time now, which Len likes. People think he's a living person, which in fairness is probably why they try to kill him.

Len's pretty sure he's doing the ghost thing wrong, that he's not supposed to give a ghost another life like this, a life made out of his own life, but he figures if he _really_ wasn't supposed to do this, he wouldn't be able to use his feelings about Mick for the extra boost he needs to keep him solid so often.

Love really is the most powerful force. Who woulda thought it?

Other than literally the entire literary world, anyway.

Len still doesn't like it when Mick 'dies', though, whether the cause is an angry mobster or a hail of police bullets, so he starts doubling down on his plans, working on them all day and night so that they don't go wrong and Mick isn't called upon to protect him.

"You know it doesn't hurt me, right? Not really?" Mick asks from the poker game he's set up with a handful of friendlies: the nun who's waiting to see her last student graduate, the thirteen year old who died in a car accident on the way to hear his favorite band, the prostitute that got killed by a serial killer (Len's working on IDing the bastard in his spare time), and a grandmother with wicked children who wouldn't let her see her grandkids. 

Grandmother or not, Sun-hui is kicking everyone's asses as usual. Tyrice is staring at her with an expression of awe – Len's got the feeling that the kid's going to be moving on pretty soon if he can convince Sun-hui to attend that concert with him. 

(Len underestimates exactly zero of his friendlies - sure, they protect him from the unquiet dead, but Tyrice has a tendency to cause accidents on the street corner where he'd died and Sister Bea has a way of guarding her church schoolkids from trouble that includes nearly giving them heart attacks when they start to do something she considers stupid.)

"I know it don't hurt _you_ ," Len replies, not for the first time. "Makes _me_ all queasy, though."

"Awwwww," Daniela says. “You’re such adorable snugglekins.”

"Shut up."

"Find the guy that beat my face in, and I will."

"I'm working on it!"

"Len – " Mick starts.

"Mick, if it makes you feel better, you can think about it as me not wanting to go back to jail, okay? If no one catches us, there's no problem."

"Fine, fine."

"Your plans are getting much better," Sun-hui says approvingly. "You leave very little trail behind you, like a ghost."

"Aw, thanks," Len says, grinning at her. He would never have understood Sun-hui in life, due to the language barrier that vexed her, but the dead all speak the same language. 

He's not entire sure what language that is – he's pretty sure it ain't actually English – but that's what he knows, so he hears it in that, or else he just understands it regardless. Len vaguely recalls his mom saying something about how the curse of Babel didn’t apply to the dead, but the specific mechanics aren’t really that interesting to him – they can talk, he can listen, that’s all that matters. 

“Plus your plans got much better since your old man got sent away,” Tyrice says, kicking his heels. He’s pretty short. Maybe he regrets not getting tall? Len should offer him some help with that. “Good-for-nothing dickwad.”

“Well, yeah,” Len says, because it’s not untrue. He’d resisted getting rid of his father at first, either by making a heist go wrong or via Mick’s preferred method of just up and torching the fucker, but that'd been because of Lisa, who needed to stay in a good school for her skating and grades. Once his dad fucked up her ankle right before a big skating competition because he needed spare cash, Len saw red. 

He’d been able to sweet-talk the old lady down the street into signing up for fostering and then agreeing to take in Lisa for the remainder of her schooling once Lewis was on his way to prison for a good long time.

Having said old lady’s husband around – and said old lady being a devout spiritualist, or whatever the hell you call people that pay fake mediums too much money, much to her deceased husband’s concern – had really helped. 

Besides, if her boo-boo told her the money was better used on taking care of Lisa than on all those mediums, who was she to object?

(Boo-boo. _Really_. Len is so glad he and Mick aren’t over-the-top smoochy like that.) 

All things considered, it worked pretty well. 

His remaining concerns about leaving Lisa with the old lady were misplaced: Mrs. Crabtree was officially Lisa’s favorite person ever, being a proper old grandma type, and Lisa chased the fake mediums who sought Mrs. Crabtree out for an easy mark away with a baseball bat, which in turn meant Mr. Crabtree felt comfortable moving on, which made everybody happy.

But since that skating scholarship didn’t look like it was going anywhere anymore, not since Lewis, that still left the question of somehow paying for Lisa’s continued schooling. It turned out high school was fine and all, being public, but college? College is an expensive pain in Len's ass, but he was determined that Lisa would go. Mrs. Crabtree certainly couldn’t help pay for it, living off her pension as she did, and neither Len nor Lisa would ever ask for her to. Now that Len knew that Lisa was somewhere safe, though, he could devote himself to dealing with that little problem.

With his dad gone, Len could recruit his own crew and hunt up some game of his own, and what glorious game it was: high end jewelry transports, art museums with shitty security, history museums with even shittier guards, fashion designer outlets where they carted away bags of dresses, much to the complaints of his crew until they found out they could sell that shit to a copy-cat place for very near the price of gold…

Okay, sure, it didn't work perfectly all the time – he spent a good few of Lisa's teenage years in prison – but after he got out again, he went right back at it, saving up the money for Lisa’s college and grad school and whatever else she wants in life. Two solid years of it, travelling the world, and it was fun and all, but Len’s not going to lie, he’s damn happy it’s over. Now that he’s had time to try all the different variations, he definitely prefers taking his time and planning out the perfect heist instead of doing them all rapid-fire like he has been.

Not to mention, now that the heat’s passed in Central and they’re mostly looking for him in Europe and the coast cities instead, it means that he gets to come home and settle down, and best of all that he’ll get to see Lisa again regularly instead of just talking to her on the phone like it’s been the last two years.

Lisa is twenty now – starting a bit later than the rest, yes, but money takes time and she's not so far behind that people would really notice. College freshman, thanks to the fudging of her high school record that he paid for to make sure she got to go anywhere she wanted, though she still picked Central City Uni so that she could live in her own apartment but still come back to Mrs. Crabtree’s for her laundry and to hang out, apparently.

College. 

_Lisa_.

Man.

Len doesn’t even know what to _do_ with that.

Like, he's been dreaming of it and planning it and counting on it, but now that she's actually _enrolled_ , it's all weird. 

He hasn’t been much of a brother these last few years, he feels – he’d been in and out of prison until she was seventeen, and he’d spent her last three birthdays out raising money for her. Len took care of Lisa as long as he could, and when he realized he couldn’t, he got her where she needed to be, but it’s not the same as really _being_ there, even though Lisa assures him that between the near-daily phone calls and the week-long visits he tried to arrange at least once every three months, she never felt like he was too far away.

Still not the same, and he’s gotta admit, he’s feeling a bit insecure about it. Which, he suspects, leads to his current overreaction now that she’s coming to crash with him for her very first spring break. 

Len spends a whole _week_ cleaning up the place he’d acquired in anticipation of Lisa's arrival, and he _never_ cleans.

"Why are you so worried?" Sun-hui asks, even as she supervises his (deplorable) cleaning attempts. "Your sister loves you, and will be happy anywhere."

"She's a college student now," Len says, focusing on his scrubbing. "I don't know, there's a difference."

"Nah, man," Tryice says. He’d finally gotten his concert, but he’d decided to wait on Sun-hui reaching her own goals before agreeing to pass on. "Still your sister. My big bro went to college, but he was still the same coming back." He pauses. "Smoked more pot, though."

Len gives Tyrice a dirty look, then sighs. "Well, s'long as it's just pot, we'll be fine."

"Yeah, crack's the bad stuff," Tyrice says all too wisely. 

"Pssh, heroin. Now that's a college kid killer – and I should know," Julie says. She's new - died of an OD before flying home for Christmas, now waiting for next Christmas to go back and say goodbye to everyone, and she’s become best buds with Daniela, which is good since Sister Bea has finally moved on by now. 

Kiki, another new one, a soft-spoken too-late-regretted suicide, nods in agreement. 

“Very bad,” she says solemnly. Nora – a sad-looking woman in her late thirties who’d gotten stabbed in the chest and never saw her beloved eleven-year-old grow up – covers her mouth to hide a smile at Len’s expression.

"Well, I think meth – " Daniela starts.

"Will you all stop talking about drugs!" Len finally yells. "Lisa's not on any! So shut up!"

They all smirk at him, but fall silent. They usually listen to him, Len's found, especially when he means it. He's not sure if it's because they all want something from him or because he actually has some power over them, but he's been trying not to think about it too hard.

He's _not_ a necromancer, damnit. His job is to help fix the world by doing his own special part of the spiritual cycle of life, just like the bacteria that eat the body of the dead, except he helps clean up the ghostly realms instead of the forest.

Julie thinks the metaphor is awful, and Nora agrees. Mick kind of likes it, though.

Speaking of Mick, he's been too quiet.

"Mick?" Len calls, but no, nothing. "Go check if something's on fire," he tells the ghosts, shaking his head.

"Nothing's on fire," Mick grumbles, walking through the door to the kitchen. The open door, for once; he’s getting better at pretending to be living on instinct. "I went grocery shopping and didn't want to holler back from the porch."

"Groceries?"

"If we're gonna impress your sister like you so obviously want to, we're gonna need some food,” Mick says like it’s obvious. “College students eat like pigs when the food’s free.”

Len sighs and looks down at the half-scrubbed floor. "I'm not gonna _impress_ her either way," he says. "I'm a high school dropout with a criminal record – "

"Who raised her from childhood," Mick says skeptically. "Who got that criminal record paying for her schooling. Who got your dad put away on charges of theft and murder that'll keep him there for a few years at least, so that he won't find you guys when he gets out. Nah, nothing impressive there at all."

"But – "

"Lenny. It'll be fine. _Relax._ "


	6. 5

It _is_ fine, at first. 

Lisa is overjoyed to see Len, dumping a back-breaking number of mechanical engineering books on the kitchen table and coming for an unexpected hug, basking in being the only one in the world that Len freely allows that privilege (Mick's on probation). She tells him all about life in college, about half studying and another good half partying, which is about what Len expected. 

Mick makes them food, too, which makes them both shut up for a while in order to eat it all.

The real sign of good cooking: no one's got anything to spare to talk 'cause they're too busy enjoying it.

"Any boyfriends?" Len asks, jumping the question on her. "Or girlfriends?"

Lisa gives him a look that says he's not anywhere near as subtle as he likes to think he is. "One or two," she says, rolling her eyes. The days where she used to tell him about every crush and attraction are long since past. "No one I'm bringing home to meet you and Mick yet."

"Aww, but I wanna scare a boyfriend," Mick protests, grinning. "It'll be fun!"

"No, Mickey," Lisa says tolerantly. 

"But it's practically my thing – well, after fire anyway – to scare people," Mick says, grinning. "Jumping out and going 'boo'."

"Save the ghost humor for Halloween," Len tells him, shaking his head.

He spots Lisa frowning out of the corner of her eye, but by the time he looks at her it's gone. Len figures she'll tell him if it's important – god knows he has enough weird triggers that he doesn't want questioned.

Len offers to clean up – "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" Lisa jokes; "You should've seen him before you got here!" Mick tells her, the traitor – and they retreat to the living room to watch movies.

Still, she seems uncomfortable sometimes, like there’s something she wants to say but isn’t saying.

Len lets it be. If they’re going to fight about something – and they probably are, he’s not doing anyone any favors by pretending they're not; he and Lisa _always_ find something to clash about, largely because he sees himself as taking care of her and she sees him as being overbearing – they may as well have a few fun days first.

It comes to a head a few days later, when Lisa comes home from shopping earlier than expected. Mick's out grocery shopping again – he wasn't wrong about college student appetites – and Len's working on some tentative heist plans and idly arguing with Julie and Daniela about _male privilege_ of all things.

It’s Julie’s fault. She was a college student herself, so Len asked her what she learned so he might have something to talk about with Lisa. Then it turned out she was a gender studies major and then, of course, Daniela jumps into the fray with her perspectives about how privilege changed when she transitioned genders and suddenly Len is arguing about things like intersectionality (they defined it for him) and whether passing privilege is a real thing and whatnot. 

So, really, it’s actually Lisa’s fault in the end, her and her college-attending ways.

Not that she’s taking gender studies classes.

…that he knows about.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” he’s telling Julie. “You can’t just talk about feminism like the only person you’re dealing with’s a white girl, okay? Life don’t boil down to ‘closest to normal’ ranging to 'furthers from normal' like a math problem ‘cause there _ain’t_ a normal you can use as a baseline, it's only considered normal 'cause most of the people doing the talking are white – oh, hi, Lisa!”

“Lenny,” Lisa says, and her voice is just that kinda weird he’s been noticing. “Lenny, what’re you doing?”

Len looks down at the blueprints he’s outlining onto tracing paper. “Uh,” he says. “Work? You know? That thing I do to get money?”

He’s never hidden what he does from Lisa, at least ever since she got old enough to understand that “breaking into houses like Santa does” wasn’t actually legal and that Len was both Jewish and unaffiliated with the North Pole.

(Lisa’s mom and dad are both Christian, so Len guesses she is too, but since he was the one that did the majority of her raising, he did what he could to teach her what he knew, so she’s got a nice well-rounded religious education: Judaism-by-proxy at home and Christianity from the nominally non-religious public school. He’s never been sure which one she prefers.)

“Not _that_ ,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes. “I can tell those are bank blueprints –” Hedge fund with a nice big safe, actually, but whatever. “– I meant the _talking_ bit.”

“Oh,” Len says, flushing a bit. “It ain’t nothing, really.”

Lisa crosses her arms. “Isn’t it?”

“Really, it ain’t,” Len says, then thinks about the benefits of completing your education and being a good example. He's been studying up on grammar to try to make Lisa, at least, come off as less of a slum kid. “I mean, it _isn’t_. It’s just – it ain't - you see - oh, all right. I wanted to know more about what college is like, so I asked, and then Julie started in on the gender studies stuff, and, well, she’s just plain old _wrong_ about some of that shit, like Daniela and I were explaining –”

“Lenny!” Lisa shouts, and she sounds distressed. “I don’t care _what_ you were talking about, I care about the fact that you’re talking to an _empty room_ like there are actual people here!”

Len gapes at her.

“Oh, crap,” Julie says, and disappears.

“Yeah, I’m gonna –” Daniela says, backing off rapidly. “Uh. Good luck with this.” And then she disappears too.

Useless, both of them. 

“But –” Len says, totally staggered by Lisa's accusation. It's totally out of the blue. “But - I – it ain’t an empty room!” He pauses. “Well, it _wasn’t_ , until they _chickened out and ran away_.”

Traitors. 

Lisa puts her face in her hands. “Lenny,” she says, and she’s actually upset about this. “There’s nobody here.”

“Well, yeah, because –”

“And there was nobody here when I got here, either,” Lisa continues. “Lenny – have you ever considered that this might be a problem?”

“Well, yeah,” Len says, because the unquiet dead are _always_ a problem. Plus there’s that whole dying young thing… “But, I mean, not _recently_.”

“It’s one thing to have imaginary friends when you’re little, Lenny, and even talking to them,” Lisa says, straightening up and grabbing his hand, pulling him over unresisting to the couch in the living room. “But you’re not a little kid anymore, okay? And I’ve noticed you talking to them sometimes, when you think I’m not paying attention, in the hallways or in other rooms.”

“But –” Len starts, but falls silent when she glares at him. He has no idea what to do about this utterly bizarre line of attack; he’d been expecting fighting with Lisa on any number of subjects, ranging from his criminality to his ‘wasting his potential’ like she said sometimes to, hell, not going out enough or failing to treat Mick right. But his _ghosts_? 

“Lenny, I went to check your medical records,” Lisa says.

“Instead of shopping?” Len tries to joke, but she’s not having any of it. “Lot of broken bones there, Lisa; you shouldn’t be looking at that sort of thing.”

Lisa nods, biting her lip. “Yeah, I – noticed. That. It was…”

“Don’t start,” Len warns her. Lisa’s had a few jags where she’s tried to apologize for being their dad’s target sometimes and for what Lewis did to Len when he stood between them, but Len’s tried time and again to set her straight on that: he’d do it all again, a thousand times over, and not regret a minute, and at any rate it wasn’t _her_ fault that their dad was a piece of shit. As long as she didn’t do anything stupid like try to go see Lewis in prison, Len’s happy with the way things are now, and the past doesn't matter.

“Right,” she says, and shakes her head a little to clear it. “But that’s not what I was looking for. Why didn’t you tell me you used to get seizures?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Len says, puzzled. “They don’t bother me no more.”

Well, not unless Mick slips up on the job, but even then, Len’s got enough friendlies to fight off the unquiet dead. As he'd told Lisa, it’s actually been pretty good recently.

“Seizures can be a symptom of other neurological problems,” Lisa says.

“My proper lil’ college girl,” Len can’t help but say fondly, even though it makes Lisa give him another look of death. “Sorry. Keep going.”

“Lenny, you ever think that maybe you’ve got, I don’t know, schizophrenia or something?”

“Not once, no,” Len says, blinking.

“And I’m not saying you’re crazy or anything –”

“No, because that’d be rude,” Len says. “Schizophrenia’s a recognized mental illness, but mental illness and crazy ain’t the same thing and conflating ‘em is derogatory and leads to bad shit.”

Now it’s Lisa’s turn to blink at him.

“Mr. Crabtree used to teach special ed,” Len offers weakly. “He had strong feelings on the subject of ablest language, okay?"

“ _Mr._ Crabtree.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“The one that _died_ fifteen years ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Before we ever met either of ‘em.”

“Yeah…”

“Lenny, if this is about the con you pulled on Mrs. Crabtree to convince her to take me in…”

“It wasn’t a _con_ ,” Len says, scowling and sitting up straight. “I mean, it was a _little_ bit, ‘cause he didn’t say anything about taking you in in specific on his own, but he was _all for_ her doing something with the money other than talking to stupid mediums who didn’t even tell her anything he was really saying –”

“Lenny! You couldn’t have talked to Mr. Crabtree, because he’s _dead_.”

“He was a _ghost_ ,” Len says, even though it's really a technicality; Mick calls himself a dead person all the time. “I talk to _ghosts_ , not to _dead people_. Once they’re passed on, they’re gone.”

“You don’t _actually_ have the ability to talk to ghosts, that’s my _point_ – delusions like that are a pretty common symptom of schizophrenia, too –”

“Lisa, I ain’t schizophrenic. I’ve _met_ schizophrenics, okay? I’m not. I just talk to ghosts, it’s _different_ , it’s –”

The door opens and Mick comes in with the groceries – less than usual, Len notes – and blinks at both of them.

“Damn, you are arguing,” he observes. Julie or Daniela must’ve gone to tell him. “You two ought to stop that – or is this a ‘Mick don’t get involved’ type argument?”

“Mick, don’t get –” Len starts.

“No,” Lisa jumps in. “Mick, come here. I need your help to explain to Lenny that his ghost thing isn’t really a thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“That he can’t actually talk to ghosts! Tell him it’s not a real thing!”

“But it is,” Mick says, puzzled.

“Thank you!” Len exclaims. 

Lisa glares at both of them.

“It _is_ ,” Mick protests. “What do you think I am, chopped liver?”

“Damnit, Mick!”

“Lisa – ” Len tries to start.

“No, damnit!" Lisa shouts, and now she's glaring even harder. She's pressing her lips together hard; it's obvious that she's _really_ upset about it. "I’m an adult now, you guys can stop with your stupid Mick’s-a-friendly-ghost thing that you did when I was a kid, it’s not funny – I’ve figured it out, you know!”

“Figured what out?” Mick asks, blinking. Len’s glad he asked it, because it was right on the tip of Len’s tongue to do the same.

“I know you had to hide Mick from Dad,” Lisa says impatiently. “And you didn’t want me to spoil it, so you told me he was a ghost and that’s why he ‘disappeared’ a lot, so that way if I talked about him, everyone would think he was _my_ imaginary friend and wouldn’t question it too much.”

“Uh, no,” Len says, because while that is a brilliant scheme, it is not actually one he’d thought of. “It’s because he was a ghost. And he disappeared a lot because I hadn’t gotten the hang of keeping him around yet.”

“Mick, you can’t seriously still be enabling this –”

“Right,” Mick says. “Lenny, I’m gonna shove some back to you; I need manifestation, not pure-solid.”

Len nods and feels the little spark of static electricity that he always gets when Mick gives back some life – a most un-ghostly act. Just more proof that Mick's perfect, he supposes. 

“What are you talking about?” Lisa asks, frowning.

“I’m talking about the fact that I’m a ghost, Lisey,” Mick says, and walks straight into the couch.

_Into_ , meaning his now visible-but-intangible feet keep going well past the point the couch starts. 

Lisa shrieks and jumps up to her feet.

Mick crosses his arms and gives her a look, his latter half mostly concealed by the couch that he’s standing in the middle of, his ghostly body just immaterial enough to go through instead of over. “Ghost,” he says. “Apparition, manifestation, _dead person_. Someone who ain't passed on. I died in 1936, Lise; Len and I went to the Hall of Records and dug up my original birth certificate and death certificate. I died in a fire along with my whole family in a farm out by Keystone.”

“We didn’t lie to you,” Len says, looking at Lisa with as earnest an expression as he can manage. It's important that Lisa understands this. “We never did, I swear. I see ghosts, and I talk to them, and I met Mick in juvie, ‘cause they built a juvie on top of where his family farm used to be, and I brought him home. And I really was talking to Julie and Daniela earlier.”

Lisa puts a hand to her mouth, which is quivering. “You’re a ghost,” she says blankly.

“Yeah,” Mick says.

“And Lenny, you – speak to ghosts? For real?”

“Yeah,” Len says.

“And Mr. Crabtree –”

“There’s a reason I was able to pull all that personal detail stuff out,” Len says. “I wouldn’t have conned anyone I was gonna leave you alone with, not really. How’d you think I did it?”

“Guessing,” she says. “Reading micro-expressions, good luck, stalking – I don’t _know_ – anything but _real ghosts_!”

Len shrugs helplessly.

“You were really talking to – what did you say – Jessica and –”

“Julie and Daniela,” Len says. 

“So there are _dead people_ hanging around all the time?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about Mick,” Len says automatically, then caves when Lisa glares at him. “Not _all_ the time. Right now they’re keeping their distance _because they’re cowards_.” He raises his voice a bit for the last bit and directs it towards the hallway.

Sun-hui floats in regally and gives him a look.

“Except you, Sun-hui,” Len corrects himself hastily. “You were just busy elsewhere.”

“Sun-hui?” Lisa asks, but it’s curiosity, now, not the worry that’s been eating at her the last few days. Len hadn't even noticed how tightly she'd been carrying herself until now, when all the tension is suddenly released. 

“Her kids wouldn’t let her see her grandkids before she died,” Len explains. “She’s keeping an eye on them anyway. She’ll probably pass on when the last one gets settled.”

“My eldest grandson, Seung-gi, will be married soon,” Sun-hui says proudly. “He has found a good wife, a love marriage, no matter how my daughter-in-law seeks to drive her away. I have left her an envelope with money, for good luck.”

Len conveys this to Lisa, then adds, “Technically, I left her the envelope. Apparently the groom’s family is supposed to give money to the bride and Sun-hui’s kids weren’t doing the job because they're dicks, so I broke in and put it there. She cried about it, good crying ‘cause she’d just about given up hope for something like that, and then showed him, and then he told her his grandmother was dead and then they _both_ cried about it. Super awkward. Glad I didn’t stick around too long.”

Lisa stares at him. 

“…what?”

“Our Lenny’s a bit of a softie,” Mick says, amused, pulling himself out of the couch now that his point had been made and settling down next to Len, arms touching so that he can pull out enough life to solidify again. “Not that he’d admit it.”

“Literally _none_ of what I just said makes me a softie,” Len objects, but somehow that’s the thing that makes Lisa start laughing so hard she’s nearly crying and throw herself into the couch between him and Mick, snuggling into both of them like she thinks she’s still five and will fit.

“I was so _worried_ ,” she says, eyes shining brighter and wetter than she’d ever admit to. “Oh, man, _ghosts_ – I can’t believe I’m saying it’s a good thing, but I’m so happy it’s just ghosts –”

“Hey,” Mick protests, but not really. “I’ve got a mental illness; it’s not like it’s the end of the world. My shrink says –”

“You have a _shrink_?” Lisa says.

“I insisted,” Len says with a shrug. One of the first few times he'd dropped by to see Lisa at college, he'd found a flyer offering psychological therapy or some such and promising discretion; he'd figured there was no harm in it. Turned out Mick liked it, a lot, so Len made him keep going. 

“You got a dead guy – no offense, Mick – a _shrink_?”

“None taken,” Mick says.

“Lisa,” Len says, long-suffering. “I ain’t sure if you’ve noticed, but Mick’s more of a long-term sort of a dead guy.”

“We prefer living-challenged,” Julie pipes up from the doorway, Nora standing by her side with a faint smirk.

“You do _not_ ,” Len tells both of them firmly, because they're just the sort of people to start in on that. Julie seriously, Nora because she's actually a giant troll. “Don’t you dare make that a thing.”

“Why don’t you set up shop as a medium?” Lisa wants to know. “Seems like you’d be a shoo-in, make tons of money.”

“It’s not like a light switch,” Len protests. “It’s not like I can root around someone’s cupboard and pull out the right ghost, y’know? I meet what ghosts I meet, and that’s it. Also, I _ain’t_ a medium. That’s different. They’re _creepy_.”

“Oh, well. Would have been fun: the Snart Medium Show – watch the man who speaks to ghosts!”

“ _No_ ,” Len says.

“Lenny’s Lifeline for the Living Impaired,” Mick offers.

“No!”

“Leonard and the Ghosts,” Lisa suggests, grinning. “Len’s Line to the Unliving.”

“Guys,” Len says, shaking his head. “No, no, and no.” He pauses. “Besides,” he says grudgingly. “It’d be called Snart’s Spooks.”

“I _like_ it!”


	7. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timing of this is completely coincidental, this whole fic having been written over the last year or so, but this chapter happens to be Halloween-themed. So happy Halloween, everyone!

All things considered, Len's amazed that it takes Lisa until her junior year to think of it.

Perhaps the real reason is that that's the first year Len and Mick start going to the university area to visit her. It's noticeably more high class an area than the ones they usually frequent, and Len only gives the okay because the statutes of limitation have run out on all of their currently outstanding warrants, which means that even if the cops do finger them, they can't do anything about it.

The area's also got a lot more people with a lot more leisure time than the areas Len prefers.

That's probably why Lisa had her no-good, awful, terrible idea.

"No," Len tells her, but he already knows he's going to give in. He's never been able to deny Lisa anything she really wanted. Well, nothing but the ability to ruin her life by taking up crime the way he has. Her record is clean and it's staying that way as long as Len can manage it - probably not forever, he's acknowledging it now, but he's going to hold off until there's no way to avoid it. 

This, though, this isn't crime. 

This is just _dumb_.

"C'mon, Lenny! It'll be great!"

"No."

Len glances over at Mick in hopes of some back-up, but no, Mick's grinning his head off like the goddamn troll that he is. 

"No!"

"He's giving in," Mick tells Lisa wisely. "You can hear it in the growing desperation in his voice."

"You sure can," she agrees.

"This is stupid," Len argues. "Too stupid for words!" 

"It'll be fun."

"No, it won't."

"Give me one good reason why it won't be fun."

"Because I see actual ghosts!" Len exclaims. "I have _no reason_ to go to a haunted house!"

"Lenny," Lisa says with a giant grin. "That's why it's gonna be so much fun. You've never been, have you?"

"Never saw the point," Len says grumpily.

"I can't believe you've been denying Mick the pleasure all these years," Lisa says. "He wants to go, doesn't he?"

"You bet I do," Mick agrees enthusiastically.

"He only wants to go so he can laugh at _me_ ," Len argues.

"You bet I do," Mick says, sweet as he can manage with a shit-eating grin on his face. "What's your point?"

Len groans.

Looks like they're going to a haunted house.

Which apparently has all sorts of bizarre preconditions Len would never have guessed.

"What do you mean I can't bring my gun?" he asks Lisa, scowling. "I paid money for this concealed carry license."

"Money that wasn't yours," Mick points out, which, yes, but it doesn't matter; Len actually spent it. It's damn hard to find a judge corrupt enough to sign off on a gun license for a felon. 

Luckily, this is Central City, and damn hard doesn't mean impossible. 

"You still can't bring it into a haunted house," Lisa says firmly, hands on hips. "You might shoot one of the performers."

Len scowls at her. Sure, he's been forced to up his game recently, thanks to the mob war between the Santinis and Darbyninans that just got started, and upping his game at this stage means higher end heists, higher end heists means more risk, more danger, and more ruthlessness – and yes, sometimes killing people, especially people that threatened to back out of major jobs in the middle, people that Len couldn't trust wouldn't go running to the cops to squeal in exchange for a cut-down sentence on something else. But just because he's gotten to the 'killing people' point in his career doesn't mean that he's going to shoot innocent performers. He doesn't shoot innocents, and he would've thought Lisa would've known that.

"Out of fright," Lisa clarifies.

That just makes Len scowl even more. 

"Relax, will you? It'll be fine, boss," Mick says, laughing. Officially, that's just something he uses for jobs in public, but he's started calling Len that, off and on; says it helps him remember. 

He also says he likes the way Len's cheeks flush sometimes when he calls him that, but whatever. Len does not blush. He's cool and cold, damnit.

...he's working on it, anyway. 

Len's newly imposed rule – you're in, you're in; you're out, you're dead – has at least and at last started getting him some respect in criminal circles, which always appreciate seeing ruthlessness when it's accompanied by success.

And Len has been successful. Other than those first early convictions for burglary, he's gotten better and better at getting away clear. The most the cops have had on him recently are a few jobs they can't pin on him and one or two misdemeanor trespassing charges. 

They're starting to remember his name.

Not as much as they remember Mick's, mind you. Mick's pyromania remains as strong as ever, and during the lean times when the criminal underworld has gone underground to avoid renewed police focus – usually during election years – and there's no easy targets that haven't already been hit by others, there's more call for arsonists than there is for thieves, even highly skilled thieves. 

Not that the police could pin those on so-called 'notorious arsonist' Mick Rory. 

It helps that, as a ghost, he doesn't leave any DNA evidence. 

But either way, all this led to one conclusion: Len and Mick are mad, bad and dangerous to know. They're the sort of people who carry weapons and know how, and when, to use them.

They do _not_ get scared at haunted houses.

"You're gonna scream like a little girl," Daniela cackles.

"I hate you all," Len says. 

"Have fun!" she sings out. 

"Just for that, you're coming with us," Len tells her. 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Daniela says. "Or, well, anything other than another lead on that asshole who murdered me – " Len is _still looking_ , damnit! Serial killers don't walk around with a goddamn sign on! "—but hell yes, I'm there with bells on."

"Where are we going?" Nora asks, emerging from the kitchen. 

"Len's never been to a haunted house before," Daniela says gleefully. "Ever."

"I have my own actual dead people! I ain't gonna be scared of some assholes in sheets!"

"Oh, my, _you're_ going to be in for a surprise," Nora laughs. "I'm definitely coming."

Len rolls his eyes. 

"How's your baby boy?" Mick asks Nora politely. 

"College applications," she says, mingled joy and sadness at it: joy, for her son's growth; sadness, that she's not there to help him through it. She consistently declines Len's offers to give her some life to go say goodbye, though; she says that just saying something to him wouldn't be enough for her to pass on and anyway she's afraid that seeing her would only make him relapse into the anxiety attacks he'd been having for years after her death. It's a tough situation she's stuck with, and Len feel pretty bad for her, but he can't bring himself to be too upset; she's great to have around, very level-headed but with a wicked sense of humor and, at times, a temper as fiery as Mick's. "He's starting to send them out."

"Graduating senior already?" Len asks, then shakes his head at her nod. "Wow. Your baby boy's only five years younger than Lisa."

"Closer to four," Nora says. "He's nearly nineteen; he had to repeat a year due to family trauma."

Due to her murder, that is. 

"See, this is why going to a haunted house is dumb," Len says to Lisa, opting to lighten the mood back up. "We have two real life murder victims right here with us."

"I'll ask Serafina to join us," Daniela decides. "She's just a hit-and-run, but it still counts. Then we'll have three murder victims to go a-haunted housing with us!"

Serafina, a law school graduate of Korean descent and non-binary gender, turns out to be more than happy to join them.

Lisa can't stop cackling with glee, and that makes everyone smile.

"I'm outnumbered," Len grumbles, and picks up the brochure Lisa obtained to figure out where he'll be driving the lot of them. "Wait, hold it! This says it's at an _abandoned cemetery_! I ain't going to no abandoned cemetery! Do you know how many dead will be there?!"

"It's an exaggeration," Lisa says, rolling her eyes.

"If there are any unquiet dead there, we'll protect you," Mick reminds Len. 

"Nice try," Nora says. 

Damnit. 

The drive there is relatively uneventful – Mick watches Len like a hawk, which is thoroughly unhelpful and kind of insulting, given that Len's the one who taught Mick how to drive in the first place – and then even once they arrive, it turns out there's a line.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Len grumbles. "Not only do we have to pay for the privilege, they make us wait for it, too?"

"Grow up, babykins," Daniela says, skipping away to go gawk. "Go stand in the line."

Len goes. 

He wishes he had his gun.

He wishes he had his gun even _more_ when one of the fake tombstones (rather amusing little poems on them) shoots open and someone – or something – leaps out at them from a trapdoor hidden underneath.

The only reason Len is certain that the apparition is part of the haunted house is because everyone else in the crowd shrieks and jumps as well.

"Lenny," Lisa says patiently. "Lenny. You're very nice, very brave, jumping in front of me and all that, but you're blocking my view."

Len sighs and returns to his place in line, watching as what is now obviously a (surprisingly detailed) zombie limps around the line, groaning at people.

Mick prods at Len's arm. Len looks at him.

"I leap in front of you," Mick says. "Not you in front of me."

"It was _instinct_."

"It was _shitty_ instinct. You soccer-mom-armed me! And _I'm_ the invulnerable one!"

No kidding. Len remembers very well how Mick's invulnerability had been the only thing that'd saved their hides when they'd been dumb enough to get involved in the stupid mob war with a job that wasn't as well-thought-out as Len had thought it was. It isn't just Len getting his stupid ass kidnapped because of payments anymore, oh no, now it's the Santinis and the Darbyinians, each with a grudge and a hell of a lot of firepower. Len and Mick had gotten the hell out of the war for now, making it clear they were purely freelancers, but the war was becoming more and more all-encompassing and they'd end up having to either side with a Family or making themselves respected and feared enough to be able to scare both sides off when the inevitable came calling.

Since neither Mick nor Len has any interest in working on Family lines, that meant that these days they're focusing on establishing their own reputations.

And part of that, yes, meant using things like Mick's invulnerability to its best advantage.

"I'll let you take the real threats," Len offers.

Mick rolls his eyes at him. 

Len has only ever walked by the haunted houses they'd had in his neighborhood when he was younger, the ones in the poorer parts of town that even the slums looked down their noses at, and he hadn't been impressed by the quality.

Apparently, and no one had told him this, haunted houses have _seriously_ upped their game in recent years.

"What the fuck?!" Len shouts.

Lisa is dying. "Oh man," she cackles. "Oh, man, Lenny, your face!"

"The fuck even _was_ that?!"

"The half-spider mutated monster or the evil scientist with the rotting arm?"

"Neither! The other thing!"

"Really?" Daniela asks, eyebrows arched and shit-eating grin on her face. "Out of everything in the hallway of horrors, the cannibal is the thing that gets you?"

"He was eating someone's face off! That’s just wrong!"

Nora cackles behind him.

"I'm glad I'm amusing the lot of you," Len grumbles. He actually is glad, especially poor Nora's been sad recently about missing all of her baby boy's important milestones. But still. A man's got a reputation to uphold, and this stupid haunted house is doing nothing for it. 

And then Len jumps half a foot into the air because some demonic squid shoots out its tentacles from the wall.

"Your face," Mick wheezes. "Oh God. Lisa. Lise. Tell me there will be photos."

"So many photos," Lisa says happily, leading the way into the next chamber.

Len's idly tracking the number (this is room ten – how big is this place, anyhow?) and mentally mapping the place, mostly to keep from strangling anybody – Lisa was right to take away his gun, sadly; he's reached for a weapon at least three times so far. Still, it’s fine. Not having it doesn't make him less dangerous. 

Though it _does_ make him think that assassinating someone at a haunted housed would be a great way to go about it – an audience already geared to assume that any screams or dying noises are fake, that any bloodied corpses are special effects, that any smell is clever chemicals...

The thought occupies him a bit (mostly through the cockroach room – Lord, _why_ is there a cockroach room?!), enough that he only vaguely notices one of the haunted house attendees, face painted white and his clothing dusted with flour, coming forward to tap Lisa on the shoulder and explain that she should follow him for the next segment. 

Some multipart horror involving Lisa spitted on a stake, Len can only assume, and that's what he does assume right up until Daniela turns to ask him something and sees the guy leading Lisa away. 

"Len!" she shouts. "That's him!"

"What?" Len asks, bemused. No one else responds, of course; he doesn't have enough energy to make three people as strong as Mick, and at any rate being invisible means that Daniela, Nora and Serafina don't have to pay for a ticket. Mick turns with a frown.

"Him!" Daniela shrieks. "Him! The one! The one who beat in my face, Len!"

"Wait," Mick says. "The _serial killer_?"

"We've already seen the serial killer exhibit, guys," Lisa calls over her shoulder.

"No," Len says, eyes going wide as he puts it together. Daniela's been on his case to find the asshole who murdered her – and a number of other sex workers in the years since – since day one. "Lisa, the guy next to you is an _actual_ serial killer!"

"What?" Lisa asks.

"Don't be crazy," the guy next to her scoffs, putting his hand on her arm. "Come this way or you won't be able to participate in the next room's haunt."

Nora dashes forward, through the wall, and shouts, "The next room's about killer robots! No audience participation!"

"You're lying," Mick growls, stepping forward. 

"Get your hands off my sister," Len adds.

The guy takes one look at the two of them and turns to run.

His mistake is in trying to pull Lisa along with him.

She spins around and knees him in the balls. "Don't you ever grab me!" she shouts. 

"He's the one who killed Daniela," Mick snarls.

"Get him!" Daniela shouts, lunging at him, but she's too weak; she passes straight through and all he does is shudder.

Mick and Len both step forward, but that's when the guy pulls out a gun.

"Who the fuck is Daniela?" he pants. "How'd you know?"

"Ooooh, if I could strangle you!" Daniela hisses. 

"I told you to let me bring a gun," Len bitches to Lisa.

"There aren't normally actual serial killers in haunted houses, Lenny!" 

"With your brother's luck, we shoulda known," Mick says, taking a half-step over until he's blocking Len. 

Len scowls at him and nudges him in Lisa's direction. He can take care of himself.

Mick scowls back.

"Will you all stop talking?!" the guy shouts. "I've got a gun!"

"Yeah, and from the way you're waving it around like a kid's toy, I bet you know how to use it about as well as your undoubtedly limp dick," Lisa snaps.

Mick and Len share a glance – only Lisa – and Mick charges forward to get between the serial killer and Lisa just in time for the guy to pull the trigger.

Mick catches the bullet in his shoulder, of course. "See what you did?" he tells her, plucking it out and waving it at her. He doesn’t bother faking the bleeding. "No sense of self-preservation, you Snarts."

"How'd I get pulled in there?" Len protests. " _I_ ain't the one that mouthed off to the serial killer with a gun!"

"Don't get me started on people you've mouthed off to, buster!"

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you people?!" the guy shouts, but by this point the noise and the commotion and – Len would bet – the backed-up line has drawn over some actual haunted house employees. Volunteers? Len's not sure. 

Their makeup's a lot better than the killer's, anyway.

"Excuse me – " a realistic skeleton starts.

"This man was trying to get me to go with him so I could be part of the haunt," Lisa announces, pointing at the killer. "He said he was an employee here, and when I refused, he aimed a gun at me!"

The guy looks down at his hand to confirm that yes, the gun's still there.

Not for long, though; Len plucks it out of his hand - way too easily because the guy barely had a grip on it by this point, too slack-jawed with disbelief - and offers it to the skeleton. "Careful with that," he says mildly. "It's got live ammo."

The skeleton looks at the gun in horror, then at the guy. "Uh, he's definitely not one of the volunteers –"

"Maybe you should call the cops," Mick suggests. 

"Fuck no," the killer says, and tries to run. 

None of them were really expecting it – it's a one-way haunted house starting to fill up with people on each side, where the hell does he think he's going to go? – which is probably why he gets as far into a hidden passage by the wall as he does.

Doesn't help, of course.

By that point, Daniela's run back to Len to wordlessly beg for some extra life, which he's given her, and she uses everything he gave her in a single burst of poltergeist power, snaking out the audio-visual cables that were threaded through the walls to wrap around him. 

"Asshole," she says, not without some serious amount of satisfaction. "I'm gonna love watching your trial."

"What the fuck was _that_ ," the skeleton says, high pitched. "That wasn't part of the set up!"

"A ghost," Len says innocently. "Ain't this place supposedly haunted?"

Lisa elbows him in the ribs. 

It's all terribly anticlimactic after that, of course. Someone calls the police and they all have to give statements, with one of the detectives (some guy named Joe West) commenting that this might very well be the only night he actually believes Leonard Snart to have an alibi. 

Very funny. 

They end up charging the guy on attempted kidnapping just to get him with something, but Len insists on the fact that he's a serial killer with enough emotive force that West reluctantly calls up a judge and gets a warrant for the guy's house, where they find two of the girls that have gone missing from the streets recently, one a prostitute and the other a college student with bad taste in makeup - apparently he targeted them based on that? Fucking people sometimes. It mostly resulted with Lisa getting incredibly insulted about the guy's inability to tell a classy traditional smokey eye from a trashy raccoon or something like that, anyway, since Len's honestly got no idea what the words coming out of her mouth meant after the first minute. But the two rescued girls agreed with her, so, okay. 

West goes into hyper alert after that, which is all to the good, and Len even manages to get in there that the guy's responsible for killing Daniela, though he obviously can't provide proof. They find some evidence in the guy's house, though, which means he is _definitely_ not long for this world – through the justice system's mercy, or through Len's. He's got enough friends in prison willing to shiv a particularly sick fuck if the justice system can't bring itself to do it for them. 

And, of course, a few people caught blurry images of Daniela's trick with the cables, and the line to go to that particular haunted house the next year is five times as long. 

Lisa insists on going again.

Len still thinks it's stupid.

Lisa says he's just scared.

Which is _totally_ not true.

(But do they have to keep using that cannibal makeup?!)

* * *

"You got a problem, huh?" Mick growls in the other man's face, the fierceness of his glare not at all dimmed by the manic grin that shows how much he's enjoying himself.

"Mick," Len says, long-suffering. He’s reclining by the table, a position of power. “Let him go.”

"Nah, boss," Mick says, not turning away from the man he’s got pressed up against a wall. Not that Len actually intended him to – they’ve got a reputation to uphold now, after all. They have to show that they’re willing to put their hand in when someone is screwing with one of their jobs, no matter who it is. It's all according to plan; Mick's just freestyling a bit. “See, I think he's got a problem. I think he wants to say something. That right?"

"No! No, not at all, nothing to say," the man gibbers. Mick is very large and very intimidating, even to powerful mobsters' sons like Nicolas Santini, who are notably less confident when their bodyguards get beaten up and knocked out, and they're being held up three inches from the floor by their jacket lapels. Len and Mick had nabbed three targets before the Santinis could get to them, which pissed them off, and little Nicholas had been sent to “solve” the problem through the usual bull-headed Santini approach of threats and intimidation.

He hadn’t exactly gotten very far. 

A blood family member of one of the most fearsome Families in Central City, technically even a Don by their standards, and yet here he is, quivering like a bowl of jello before a pair of freelance thieves.

Very good freelance thieves.

Nicholas Santini _really_ should’ve listened to his cousin’s stories about how they’re not just thieves, they’re monsters that rise from the dead. 

Len smirks.

They’ve gone a long way from the days when Len got kidnapped and Mick got shot trying to rescue him, and Len likes it this way much better. 

Not that this solves the problem for good, of course. Sending a member of the actual Family against them meant that the Santinis were taking Len and Mick’s firm no-Family-affiliation freelance position a bit personally, which both wasn't a surprise but was still really annoying. Len’d have to make a point of hitting some Darbyinian targets in the next few months just to make clear that their neutrality was unaffected; that should be enough. 

Personally, Len’s just happy that he was able to get Lisa to go out of town after she’d graduated. Now _that’d_ been a fight for the ages – the way this one definitely wasn’t – because Lisa had been reluctant to leave Len even if she didn’t have the same attachment to Central City that he did.

An attachment that she referred to as “idiotic” and “unhealthy”, which it was not. A man can love the city he was raised in, even if that city was objectively a hellhole ripe with corruption, poverty and crime.

Huh, maybe that’s _why_ Len likes it so much. He fits in so well here.

Okay, sure, there’s been the growing number of weird science laboratories getting settled here – Mercury, Star, the whole sheebang – but there’s an army base not far away to serve as clientele, cheap land with very low environmental regulations, and by this point Len’s honestly used to the idea of his slums being used as rich people’s dumping grounds. 

He doesn’t _like_ it when they do that, mind you, which is why he robs the rich assholes in charge of bringing toxic dumps to his city more often than he does anyone else, but there’s not much else he can do to express his displeasure.

At any rate, Lisa had managed to get a job offer at one of the most prestigious engineering firms in the country, all the way out in Boston, and that’d gotten her to go when none of Len’s other arguments had worked, if only because Len had refused to let her pass up the opportunity and she’d reluctantly agreed. 

Sure, she still visits regularly – Len visit her, too, but he can’t force her not to come to Central – but at least she’s out of the worst of the mob war. 

“I swear!” Seriously, is the guy _still_ whining? Honestly, Len’s ashamed of him; he’s born and raised Family, he ought to have a bit of a backbone. They’re not even torturing him! They’re not even threatening to torture him! The worst they’re threatening him with is a bit roughing up! They really don’t make them like they used to, and thank heaven for that. Len’d far rather put up with idiots like little Nicholas here than the big kahunas that his dad swam with when Len was a kid: Don Cesare, Don Giovanni, Don Tomio of the asshole-kid-smashed-up-Len’s-head fame... “I didn’t say anything! I didn’t mean anything!” 

"That right?" Mick growls. "'cause I woulda sworn I heard you talking earlier, saying things about Snart here..."

"No!"

"Mick," Len says, finally managing to quash down his amusement enough to sound appropriately stern. "He's not worth wasting your energy on."

"Fine," Mick says, and releases the guy's jacket. "Looks like it's your lucky day. Now go."

The guy goes as quickly as he can manage.

Mick returns to Len's side, now grinning like a loon.

"Was that extra bit _entirely_ necessary?" Len asks, trying not to smile. Mick does so enjoy himself when there are people to push around...

"You know it is," Mick says firmly. "We gotta make clear you’re the one in charge of me, so that your reputation’ll get even more fearsome than mine; that's the only way they'll respect you. Order of operations, boss."

Len shakes his head. It’s not that he isn’t convinced – Mick can be very convincing when he wants to be – but at the same time…

"You'll get in trouble one of these days," he warns, not really meaning it.

Mick snorts. "What's the worst that can happen?" he asks, rolling his eyes ostentatiously. "They gonna kill me?"

They end up shooting him.

Len groans in annoyance.

Not _again_.

You’d think they’d learn by now.

* * *

"I'm thinking of going back for my masters," Lisa says. "Maybe a PhD."

"Really?" Len asks, phone shoved between his shoulder and his ear. "I thought you said you were done with school. Straight into the workforce, you said."

"Things were said," she sniffs. “I’m not going to be held responsible for past-Lisa’s statements.”

Len chuckles and steps around the still-cooling corpse on the floor – an ex-associate who'd thought he was above such things as rules. Len squelches the feeling of guilt: the guy had thought he could get away with skimming off the top of the funds they'd collected for the job because he was buddies with Mick, even though Mick'd warned him he wouldn't get any special favors, and then to add insult to injury, when Len'd called him out on it, he'd had the arrogance to try to pull out of the job entirely.

Len's reputation makes it _very_ clear what happens if you're out, and that reputation makes it impossible not to do what he did next.

Still, Len can't help feeling bad about it. He hates killing people – it only adds to the number of ghosts in the world, unless he's lucky, and ghosts of people he killed are always unquiet – but not killing's a luxury he can't afford if he wants to survive in the criminal underworld. 

He has to be cold and heartless, just like dear old dad – may he rot in hell or a jail cell, wherever he is now – always said. 

Plus, this means he needs to get someone new, and he hates mid-job recruiting. 

"If it's what you want, Lise, you should go for it," Len tells her. "You know you don't need my permission."

"I know," she says. "But there's always the matter of money to think about."

"Ahhhh, I see," Len teases. "This is less of an FYI and more of a call to the big brother bank, huh?"

"Actually, I'd been hoping to earn my own way," Lisa replies. "Unfortunately, doing grunt work as a baby engineer in a big company that pays peanuts –" The market for bachelors-only engineers is a tough one, according to Lisa. "— and skating in some ice shows in my spare time only gets me so much."

Len has the sinking feeling he knows what her next comment is going to be. "Lise, I can just give you the money," he points out, trying to forestall the inevitable.

It doesn't help.

"I want in on one of your jobs," she says firmly. "Time for me to earn my own way."

"I've let you in on jobs before," Len protests.

"Sure, in _baby_ jobs," Lisa says. "I know you're planning something big, and I want in."

"I've already collected a crew, Lise."

"Mick says you need a new ringer."

Len stops, affronted, and glares at Mick, who shrugs, clearly well aware of what's being discussed. Undoubtedly why he’s hiding behind a newspaper across the room. 

That doesn't make it any less inappropriate. Len _literally_ just shot the guy! How did Mick even find time to tell her?!

"Lise – "

"I can do the job, Lenny. Gimme a chance."

"I know you _can_ do it – " Lisa's one of the natural grifters of this world; Len's always been impressed by her skills. That’s never been his problem. "—the question is, why would you risk a perfectly good, clean record when I can just get you the cash?"

"Oh, _please_ ," Lisa scoffs. "You haven't been caught in _ages_. And if you're feeling particularly paranoid about my record, you can plan me a nice getaway. Ghost-amplified, if necessary."

Len scowls. He still doesn't like it.

"I already owe you so much, Lenny," Lisa continues. "Let me actually help with this one. Please?"

"What's your real motive here?" Len asks, suddenly suspicious. "You _like_ it when I give you gifts."

Lisa sighs. 

Hah! Len _knew_ there was another reason.

"I need it for my resume," she finally admits.

Which –

" _What_? How?"

"Not my _work_ resume, you jerk," Lisa says, sounding amused. "In case I ever need to pull a job, really need to, and you're not around to vouch for me. The Snart name goes a fair way towards it, but nothing substitutes for actual experience – you've said so yourself."

Len grumbles. He has said so, damnit.

"I have the baby jobs you let me help out with," Lisa continues. "One or two big-name heists with notable takes that I can name-drop would let me skip the little leagues, go straight in with the guys that know what they're doing instead of the crappy ones that need to go back to con school –" Meaning prison. "— before they get their act together."

"But why do you need to do crime at _all_?" Len asks, aware that he's whining. "Lise -"

"Even with your talents, you might get caught one day," Lisa says, her voice suddenly hard. "And if that day comes, when that day comes, I want to be the person you call to help mastermind your escape. Me. I want to be second in line in your phone –" 

"You're my first speed-dial, Lise; you know that."

"— second only to Mick."

Well, _yes_. Len's always going to go to Mick first, but he doesn't need a speed dial for him.

"You know what I meant," Lisa says warningly. 

Len sighs. She's not wrong. It would be good to have another person he can rely on, someone he can really trust, especially if it comes to a question of needing to plan an exit route that relies on revealing the full extent of Mick's ghostly abilities. Going temporarily invisible and intangible is incredibly useful for a thief, but Len’s determined to make sure that no one else in the underworld ever figures out what they can do. He’s been threatened too many times to be comfortable with anyone knowing all of his tricks, and his tricks include Mick. 

He’s done a good job of it so far, making sure that everyone thought the stories about Mick rising from the dead are just exaggerations, but there will undoubtedly be jobs, or at least prison breaks, where he’ll need to use Mick’s abilities and rely on a crew, and that crew had better be only made up of people he really, truly trusts. 

But this is his _baby sister_.

“Lenny, please,” Lisa wheedles. “It’s important to me. I want you to be able to count on me the way I’ve always counted on you and Mick.”

Well, if she puts it that way, it’s hard to say no.

And, well, they _do_ need a new ringer now that what’s-his-name is no longer going to be available on account of being dead and having passed on…

“Fine,” Len says, giving in with a sigh.

Lisa cheers.

“How long till you can get to Central City?”

“Couple of hours,” she says promptly. “I’m already on my way to the airport.”

Len rolls his eyes. Of course she is.

“Great, I’ll fill you in on the job when you get here,” he says. “You’ll need to be in tip-top grifting to do it, though; it’s going to be a tricky one.”

“A tricky one?” Lisa asks, sounding amused. “Is there something the great thief Leonard Snart, robber of ATMs and breaker of jewelry stores and museums, still considers tricky?”

Just for that, Len’s going to tell her now.

“We’re gonna rob a moving train.”

Lisa laughs.

Len doesn’t.

“…you’re joking, right?”

Len smirks.

“Lenny!”

“I was getting bored with the ATMs and the jewelry stores and the museums,” Len says innocently. “Wanted to up my game a bit. What’s wrong with that?”

“Are you _insane_? We don’t live in a Western!”

“Now, now, Lisa, you never know when you might need to be able to ride a horse or a fire a six-shooter,” Len says, starting to laugh, his straight face breaking at the tone in her voice.

“Just for that, we’re taking horseback riding lessons with some of the leftover money,” Lisa warns. “You, me, and Mick.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Len lies. How hard can riding a horse be, anyway?

Lisa is still mumbling curses on his name when Len hangs up the phone.

“It go well?” Mick asks, looking up from his newspaper hopefully.

“Yes, Lisa’s joining us for this one,” Len tells him, rolling his eyes again when Mick breaks out into a broad smile. “And afterwards, we’re all going horseback riding.”

The smile disappears.

“…what?” Len asks. “They can’t be that tough.” But he’s uncertain now. Mick’s expression of horror is really convincing.

“We had horses on my farm,” Mick says grimly. “You are not getting on one of those hell-beasts.”

“You know what,” Len says, “I’ll just – let _you_ tell Lisa that when she arrives.”

And then he flees, laughing his head off, because now Mick’s shouting curses after him.

Serves him right, conspiring behind Len’s back like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering, they never end up going horseback riding because Lisa is ALSO a city-born, city-bred girl whose understanding of the scale of horses is informed by kid’s books, not reality.
> 
> Which means they get as far as the horseback riding ranch, get out of the car, see a horse, stare in silence for a few minutes, and then go “…so we get back in the car and go home now, right?” 
> 
> “Yes. Yes, that’s what we do.”
> 
> And then they collectively flee in terror as Mick laughs at them.


	8. 7

Len’s memories are out of order, which means he’s hurt himself again.

Between the smell of antiseptic, the noises around him, the way the sheets are just a bit too starched, he’s managed to figure out that he’s in a hospital. Now, the last thing he remembers is catching the bus down to Louisiana for a heist, so unless the bus blew up, he figures he’s missing a few memories.

It’s okay. They’ll come.

Let’s see. Did he get to Louisiana? The Best Western they’d decided to stay at?

Yes, he remembers laughing with Mick at the décor, which was classic Best Western but which someone had tried to spruce up with a stuffed alligator, despite the fact that this was Shreveport, not New Orleans. Maybe because of that fact; what does Len know about alligators? 

Okay, so they made it down there. What happened next?

He tries to think.

Dinner, he remembers going out to dinner with Mick, that definitely happened. Did they make it to the warehouse?

Warehouse –

_Fire_.

Oh, right.

Len cracks his eyes open.

Mick’s at his usual position.

Well, usual enough – he’s always on the next bed over, if there is one, or using a chair if they allow visitors. If they don’t allow visitors, he goes invisible and hovers there anyway.

Today he’s opted for the floor, knees pulled up to his chest and chin drooping, just like the teenage ghost he was behind the aging-up that Len gave him. He’s not nearly low enough on energy to return to that state – that only happened once, years and years ago, when Mick had had a really bad panic attack and had thrown a few things around, poltergeist-style, which he wasn’t naturally good at, until he’d spat out enough energy to go back to teenage size, which had luckily worked to shock him out of the spiral he’d been in; but he’s had enough life to avoid having that happen for ages now – but he doesn’t look good.

Len’s still pretty pissed at him, but he’s also just superstitious enough not to want to break what’s been working for them. And this _has_ been working for them, really.

For better or for worse, they are, even though they’ve never come outright and said anything explicit. Len’s not going to let something like this – even though he’s _really_ pissed – be the thing that Mick’s always feared, the one-flaw-too-many that makes Len finally decide he doesn’t want Mick around anymore. 

No.

_Never._

“Mick,” Len says. “Why’ve I got an IV?”

He doesn’t, actually, but he sees the fucker hiding out across the room, so it’s just a matter of time, really.

Mick’s head jerks up. “Lenny,” he croaks. “Oh, god.”

Len frowns at him. “That close?”

Mick shudders. “Too close,” he says. “As always. But this time – it was my fault, and I just – I couldn’t live with that.”

Len’s angry. Len’s pissed off. Len is –

“Technically, you ain’t really _living_ with anything, are you?”

– totally incapable of resisting an opening like that.

Mick gives him a sickly smile. “I’m glad you’re doing okay,” he says. “I’ll – I’ll just go get Lisa.”

Len watches him drift away, frowning a bit. Damnit, Mick, it’s hard to be angry at someone when they’re acting like a kicked dog already. 

“Lenny!” 

“Hi, Lisa,” Len says. “When’d you get here?” Then he pauses, realizing he has no idea where ‘here’ is or how long it’s been.

“You’ve been in and out for about three days,” Lisa says, catching his look. “And we’re in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

“ _Tulsa?_ ”

“Better burn ward.”

“I got burned?”

“More smoke inhalation than anything else, though yeah, you’ve got a couple of nasty burns, too. Mick broke you out of the ambulance – well, first he broke himself out of _his_ ambulance, though ‘broke’ isn’t really the word – and brought you up here.”

“Oh. Okay, that makes sense.” Len processes that. “So why’s he being mopey? I haven’t even got a chance to yell at him yet.”

“He’s upset because you nearly died, you moron,” Lisa says, dragging over a chair. “For that matter, _I’m_ upset. The doc said you had another seizure.”

“Yeah,” Len replies, making a face. “That’s why I’m gonna yell at Mick. Eventually.”

“Yeah, _about that_. Care to go into slightly more detail about this whole ‘the seizures don’t bother me anymore’ thing?”

“I explained!” Len says defensively. “I told you about the unquiet dead and all that.”

“You told me that your ability to talk to ghosts is eventually going to kill you and then I started crying and the conversation derailed into an all-around Lisa-Snart-mope-fest,” Lisa says tartly. “I’d like more detail, thanks.”

“…I’m wounded and would like to go back to sleep now.”

“If I believed that, I’d let you. As I don’t – _talk_.”

“Fine, fine," Len sighs. He hadn't had much hope of that working, anyway. "So you know how I explained that the unquiet ghosts are ghosts that don’t ask for my life energy, they just take it?”

“Yeah, the bad ghosts.”

“They’re not all bad – okay,” Len amends, because Lisa’s giving him the ‘are you really defending Dad _again_ ’ look, and he’s _not_ , honestly, “they’re pretty bad, not gonna lie. They’re not all killers and murderers and stuff, just people who are so goddamn self-centered they don’t care about things like consent or killing me or anything like that.”

“Bad ghosts,” Lisa says firmly.

“Bad ghosts,” Len concedes. “Anyway, when they suck out too much of my energy, or if I give too much of it away, it reads like a seizure.”

“From what I understand, it _acts_ like a seizure.”

“Well, kinda. The docs don’t actually know what’s going on, but it looks a lot like a seizure, either grand mal or petite mal, and they say the side effects are pretty similar, too. But it’s not really like epilepsy; there are specific factors and I know exactly when an attack is going to happen. Well. Not _exactly_ , see the events that led me here, but I can at least predict it, most of the time.”

Lisa nods. “And the good ghosts protect you from the bad ghosts, right?” She pauses. “Man, I really hope no one is eavesdropping on this conversation.”

“They’ll think we’re talking in code,” Len says dismissively. “And see, this is where the good ghost/bad ghost thing breaks down. Like – you remember Deena, right? She hung out for a while after Daniela passed on?”

“The rocker chick with the guitar? Yeah, sure.”

“She killed eight people.”

“ _What_?”

“She’s a savage haunting,” Len says, shrugging. “Poltergeist in her natural form. She was doing the classic blood-writing-on-walls bullshit, said she’s seen it in the Shining and thought it was appropriate.”

“You’re joking. _Deena_?”

“She calmed down a bit once I made her come home with me, stick around for a few months before going back to search for her killer,” Len says, shrugging. “She was killing people pretty indiscriminately at that bed and breakfast over the last five years. Ghost logic isn’t human logic – she figured whoever the guy that killed her in that hotel room was still there, for some reason. I talked some sense into her, got her to stop killing innocents.”

“And now, what, she just kills people she thinks might be the guy?”

“No,” Len says, rolling his eyes. “I broke into the police station and let her read over the police reports, she figured out it was a mobster thing, and now she’s gone off to go fuck with the guy that did it so that he’ll eventually confess. Or die. She’s kind of indifferent between the two.”

“…good for her, I guess,” Lisa says, blinking. It’s understandable; Deena’s a real sweetheart most of the time. She’s just really, really angry about the whole death-before-stardom thing. Len sees her sometimes when he goes too close to the Santini safehouses; she always waves. “So, getting back to the point. It’s good ghosts – er, friendly ghosts – versus bad ghosts, right?”

“Yeah, basically. Except I don’t usually need to cart around that many friendly ghosts anymore, ‘cause I’ve got Mick and he’s really good at fighting off the unquiet dead.”

“The bad ghosts, right. So what happened this time?”

Len makes a face. “I didn’t bring too many ghosts along, because most of the ones I would’ve brought had things they wanted to do in Central. Figured I’d be fine with just Mick.”

“And?”

“The warehouse we were in went up like a match,” Len says. “Mick got distracted. That’s when the unquiet ghosts hit. A whole bunch of them, all at once, just –” Len shudders at the memory. Each hand grasping, pulling, tugging; the feeling of his life dripping out of him, yanked out by the handful; the ghosts' hungry, hateful faces; the knowledge that it’s not enough, nothing will be enough, nothing but life again, _real_ life, their _own_ lives, something they can never have again, and worst of all, they know it and they hate it and they're so _angry_ – 

“Not good,” Lisa says.

“Yeah. Not good. They got too much of me and so, you know –”

“Seizure.”

“Seizure in the middle of a warehouse that’s on fire. Because Mick was too distracted by the flames to help.”

Lisa makes a face. “Ouch,” she says. “I see why he’s so upset.”

“You see why _he’s_ so upset?”

“He loves you more than anything, you know that,” Lisa says, all too reasonably. “If he thought you were dead and it was his fault, well. I don’t even know what would happen.”

“Bad things,” Len says with a sigh. He sees his stuff on the chair next to the hospital bed and reaches over to it. Is there- ah, yes, here it is. He pulls out his phone and does a few searches on some already saved websites, all of which confirm what he'd been worried about. _Great._ He'd been hoping the last few times were a fluke.

"Bad things?" Lisa prompts, when it looks like he's finished. She's used to him getting distracted from a conversation, and good at picking up where they left off once he's done. "What sort of bad things?"

Len grimaces, putting down his phone. "I mean bad things. You know how I always said I wasn't sure me and Mick, that was something we were supposed to be doing?"

"You said you didn't care, either," Lisa reminds him.

True.

"Still don't," Len says. "But, well, it turns out the reason people my family don't typically empower specific ghosts all that much over long periods of time - the way I do with Mick - is because they get _real_ powerful when we do.”

Lisa frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, Mick would never do this sorta shit on purpose, but – you remember that panic attack way back? Throwing everything around?”

“Yeah?”

“He had one like that a few months back. Nothing like this time, but I noticed something weird. And this time confirms my suspicions, assuming he got angry -"

"Oh, _did he ever_ ," Lisa says dryly.

"Yeah, well, this time he didn't just toss around some chairs," Len says. "This time he nearly started a tornado.”

“ _What_?”

“Yep. I tracked the weather patterns," Len says, nodding at his phone. Having access to the various weather guides' internal data was definitely worth the money he'd paid the hacker to do it. "The pattern’s consistent with what happened last time. Normal ghosts, they throw around stuff in a room, right? Turns out Mick’s so powerful, he's started throwing around _weather formations_.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Lisa says. “Clearly the answer is for you to not die.”

“ _Lise_.”

“You expect me to be upset that my brother’s death will be accompanied by rain and storm and possibly hellfire?” Lisa asks, arching her eyebrows. “I think that’s a plus, honestly.”

Len shakes his head. Lisa did always have a way of cheering him up. “Tell Mick he can come back,” he says. “I’m only a little angry at him.”

Even that little amount of anger is gone by the time Mick returns. Len not being angry doesn’t seem to help, though.

Mick comes back, yes, but his smiles remain sickly and his expression harried. He averts his eyes often, fixing them on the ground instead; he finds excuses not to do things he enjoys, like cooking; he doesn’t go on jobs with Len, recommending others – either other crew, or other ghosts, or something. He barely lights fires.

He's haunting their safehouses, far more than he ever did before.

Nothing seems to help - not trips to nice restaurants, not burning things, not ice cream, not _anything_. Len's quizzed all his ghosts - not Nora, whose beloved baby boy had a terrible accident some time back, ending up in a coma, a set of events that has sent her into her _own_ fit of depression, but all the others - and they've suggested all sorts of things, but nothing's worked to help cheer Mick up. 

Not even Len assuring him that he's _really_ not angry will do it.

Len even tries actually _talking_ about it, and he hates talking. 

"Mick," he says. "What can I do to help fix what's ailing you?"

"I'm a ghost," Mick says. "I don't get sick."

"You're depressed. Or acting like it. Ever since the fire -"

Mick shrugs. His shoulders and arms are covered with twisted burn scars, far worse than the ones Len got in real life; Len worked with Mick to figure out how Mick could make small adjustments to his appearance so that people wouldn't wonder why he didn't shave when they were both in lock-up, but he never imagined that Mick would use it to burn scars into his self-image. 

"Mick, you know I'm not upset, right?"

"I know."

"I don't hold what happened against you."

"I know."

"You know I still want you by my side."

"I know."

"And you know I'm okay."

"I know."

"So nothing bad happened," Len says, slightly exasperated. "Nothing more than a few weeks in the hospital. What's the problem?"

Mick breathes deep, a long inhalation and exhale as a sigh. "It's trust, Lenny."

"Trust?"

Mick nods.

"You worried I don't trust you to watch my back anymore?"

"No," Mick says. "I know you do. It's that I don't trust _myself_ to watch your back anymore."

Len opens his mouth but finds himself speechless for once.

"I'm dragging you down, Len; holding you back," Mick says. "It's just the way it is. I swore to myself I'd only ever help you, not hurt you, and then I hurt you 'cause I couldn't watch myself. Couldn’t control myself. It's better for you – better for both of us – if I don't shove my nose in where it don't belong."

"You're wrong," Len says, overwhelmed and appalled by the sheer wrongness of what Mick is saying, all eloquence and persuasiveness gone, his tongue sticking in his throat as he desperately searched for the right words to stop whatever this is that's happening here. "You're so wrong, Mick – I want you by my side, I _need_ you by my side -"

"You don't need anyone," Mick says. 

"The unquiet dead –"

"You have the other ghosts."

"Are you _leaving_ me?" Len bursts out, horrified into speech at last. "Is that it? You leaving me behind? You want out?"

"No," Mick says, looking surprised. "I'm here for you, you know that. But I don't want you relying on me. For your own sake."

Len opens his mouth to say something, but Mick opts to disappear instead of talking it out.

Len could probably force him to come back. He knows that, knows it deep in his bones; if he yelled "Come back and talk to me", Mick would. He's as filled up on Len's life as a ghost can get, and that makes a bond between them. If Len can make the regular dead listen, he can make Mick listen. 

But no.

Len would never do that to Mick, never force him like that, not for anything short of life and death. 

God. How did this happen? 

Mick doesn’t want to be with him. Or he does, but he doesn’t want to actually _do_ things with Len; he wants to punish himself instead, just like he was punishing himself for his family all the way back in juvie. What stupid thing is Mick gonna think of next? Maybe he'll decide that being there for Len doesn't necessarily have to involve his presence, so maybe he should stop being around so he can stop Len from giving him his life again?

Damnit, he'd _better_ not do that. He has to stick around, or else how is Len going to convince him that he's making a terrible mistake?

Besides, Len doesn't see it as _giving_ Mick his life; he hasn't for years. They _share_ his life, because what's Len's is Mick's and what's Mick's is Len's, and he doesn't understand why it's so hard for Mick to see that –

Hmm.

That gives Len an idea.

But first, he's going to need some supplies.


	9. 8

He calls Lisa. "Lise," he says.

"Tell me you've made up with Mick," she says, right off.

"Can't say that, but I'm working on it. If I wanted to subtly tell someone he's both priceless and a hard-headed idiot -"

"Get him a diamond," Lisa says immediately. She likes shiny things; that's why she's his go-to on these things. "Hardest substance, that sort of thing."

"I get him diamonds all the time."

"Diamonds you then _sell_ ," Lisa points out. "Get him a special one. Ooh, then run a lightshow through it! Images of fire."

"...that would be cool," Len admits, but now he’s thinking of other uses for a diamond. Yes, a diamond will work just right for what he’s planning. "Is there a diamond large enough for that, though?"

"Sure, there's plenty of them," Lisa says. "Actually, I think I saw a flyer just the other day...lemme just dig it up...ah! Here it is. Kandhaq Dynasty diamond, one of a kind, coming to the Central City Museum next month. Positively gigantic, _and_ it's in Central. Your favorite."

Len smiles. "Perfect."

He plans his next heist with care, though he recruits whoever's willing to do the job instead of going through his and Mick’s usual careful recruitment process. The people don't matter – he's planning on paying them off with the proceeds of other jobs anyway. The diamond, whether they sell or keep it, will be Mick's to decide on.

That's what you do with gifts.

The day of the heist is beautiful and everything's working shipshape and on time. They've stopped the convoy with the diamond en route to the museum, he’s got the nitrogen to freeze open the door, the guard has been disabled but not hurt, it's all good –

Until something goes wrong.

A burst of red light and yellow lightning comes out of nowhere, zipping down the streets horizontally, moving too fast for the eye to get a proper fix on, and it comes right at them. Something - Len can't tell what - shoves them all down, causing total confusion, only to leave them alone and spirit away one of the guards when he’s (unnecessarily) shot by one of Len’s now-panicking crew.

Len hates waste, but he knows when a job’s gone bad. Time to go before whatever that was comes back.

He pulls his crew out of there and hustles them back to the warehouse they’ve been using as a home base.

“Now,” he says, looking at all of them and seeing the guilty looks on their faces that suggest that this turn of events isn’t as much of a surprise to them as it is to him, “why don’t you fill me in on what I’ve been missing in Central these past few months?”

“You were out of town,” one of them says with a shrug. “If you’d been here, you’d know –”

“Which is why you should have _told_ me,” Len says, his voice hard. “Now’s the time to make up for your earlier missteps. What is it?”

They don’t know.

All they can tell him is that it’s a new phenomenon that’s been seen around Central, a flash of light, a flash of _lightning_ , that goes around and messes people up. Mostly criminals committing crimes, actually; never fatally, just shoves them really hard or delivers them places they don't want to be, like the CCPD. 

They tell them that there’s been a lot of weird stuff happening in Central, actually, ever since the Particle Accelerator explosion nearly a year ago – people gone strange, things happening without explanation, abilities that defy logic – and then this started and now everyone's on high alert.

This new phenomenon, only a few weeks old. 

This burst of lightning that seems to be stopping crime all over the city.

They call it the _Streak_.

It's an awful name. Who the hell thought of that? For _shame_.

Of course, Len's crew also think that this Streak is some sort of new force of nature, like a will-o-wisp gone mad, which is obviously ridiculous. Their own testimony reveals that this Streak is stopping crime, and stopping crime means deciding what _is_ crime, and deciding means sentience. 

And sentience, as far as Len knows, means human. 

Len pulls the footage from local security cameras and – yes. There it is.

Len’s got a good eye, and he can figure out what the others haven’t yet. 

The Streak’s not a phenomenon.

It's a _man_.

Just a man, though admittedly one moving faster than the limits of reasonable possibility.

No, wait. Len's wrong. This is not just a man.

This is a _superhero_.

Len feels the adrenaline rush of a new challenge. He can’t help it; he loves it, he loves the idea of it, he loves the sheer ridiculous _reality_ of it. A brand new puzzle to solve, a new obstacle to overcome, a new hurdle to jump, a new game to play. All brand new and interesting and exciting, and, best of all, this new puzzle is a superhero just like in the comics Mick loves so much. How wonderful. 

How perfectly timed.

Len can’t wait to play this brand new game. 

But only if he has Mick by his side. 

And for that, he needs to get that goddamn diamond, and no Streak - superhero or not - is going to stop him.

"Lisa," he says into the phone.

"Yeah?"

"How's Mick?" Len had sent Mick over to keep an eye on Lisa, nominally, though in reality Lisa was babysitting (Mick-sitting?) to make sure Mick didn't notice what was going on until the job was done. 

"Still moping, but he did make me dinner yesterday. So – improvement? Or possibly he just couldn’t bear to see me order cheap take-out again."

"Well, I mean, I guess that's something...? Anyway, I've got something of a research question for you, best engineer that I know."

"I’m the _only_ engineer you know. Yeah?"

"What do you do if you've got something moving too fast?"

"Apply duct tape."

"Lise."

"Not an option?"

"No. Too fast for that. Far, far too fast."

"Hmm. Get something cold, then."

"Cold?"

"Yeah. Atoms go faster when they're heated; they slow down when they're cold. Like the heat death of the universe – colder and colder, slower and slower. Why do you ask?"

"Thanks, sis," Len says instead, and hangs up.

Wasn't that asshole Bertolli trying to sell STAR Labs stuff a few weeks back? No one had taken him up on it – Bertolli is a known rat, selling decent shit sometimes, but he'd turn the info that you had bought it into his next sellable commodity, and at any rate no one wanted anything to do with STAR Labs after the Accelerator.

But he'd said something about temperature themed weapons...

Sure enough, Bertolli is still selling, and starting to get desperate with it, offering to take Len back to his warehouse. Len’s not sure why the guy needs a warehouse when he only has a few items, but whatever.

Two guns – but the first one Len sees and goes towards isn’t cold, no. 

It’s a heat gun.

_Perfect._

Len’s still smirking when he tries out the cold gun. It works like a dream; far better than any of his other plans to stop the Streak, though some of the others were probably worth elaborating on further eventually.

“So, how many people know about this?” he asks.

“Just the two of us,” the guy says, and his voice is strangely shaky.

“Boss! He has a gun!” Kiki yelps.

Len spins and points the cold gun at the goddamn rat, who is in fact pulling a piece out. Not just a piece. Standard issue Santini, as recognizable as a cop’s gun.

This is an ambush.

“No,” Len says. “Just me.” And then he fires the blast of cold straight at Bertolli, grabs the box with the heat gun, and hightails it the hell out of there just in time before a positive hail of bullets pour through the door, spraying all over the area they were both standing a minute before.

Yep, definitely a Santini ambush. Practically a classic - as usual, the Santinis never had any intention of letting their rat survive their baited trap. And they wondered why people didn't like working with them...

“You mentioned the gun but not the guys outside?” Len asks Kiki as they go out the back door. He wonders idly how he’s pissed off the Santinis today.

“Forgive me,” she says miserably, bowing a little. “I did not think to check beyond the immediate area–”

“It’s okay,” Len says. Mick always had someone run a full perimeter check, or did it himself, but it’s unfair to compare. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yes, boss.”

Time for a test drive.

Oh, look, a local theater with a daily matinee showing. 

Perfect.

Len goes to the museum to case out the diamond. He makes sure he’s as obvious as obvious can be – he even takes the goddamn McFeeny Cow Savior tour twice, and _no one_ takes that damn thing twice, so if that doesn’t get the police called on him, nothing will. 

Sure enough, the police come, and with them –

The Streak. 

Len retreats, smiling, to the theater, which is just letting out.

Turns out that Len’s suspicions are correct – as soon as he gets inside the theater, the Streak comes for him, slowing down enough for Len to see him clearly. Yes, the Streak is indeed a man. 

Apparently a young man. In a red suit. 

God, seriously? A superhero in a red suit? Can you get _more_ cliché?

If the kid’s been reading the same comics Len has, then – and here Len raises his gun, smiling – Len’s going to have a hell of an edge.

The theater really does make a perfect spot for a superhero ambush. Multiple exits, plenty of people all going in different directions – based on the speed Len’s estimated the Streak is running at, he can’t empty out the whole place without losing his focus. Therefore, if Len is firing at people, the Streak will prioritize saving them - and if he’s focusing on other people, he can’t focus on attacking Len, giving Len plenty of time to study his reactions and figure him out.

Len aims his shiny new toy cold gun at the various fleeing people, focusing more on testing the Streak’s running capability than on intending to cause actual injury; after all, these people did nothing to him, and he has no intention of causing collateral damage when he just ripped his crew a new one over doing the very same thing to that guard – and then killed one of them who tried to back out, which seriously, the guy should've known better than to try. At least Len got lucky and the asshole didn't turn ghost over it. 

Playing with the Streak's the most fun Len's had in months.

It’s great fun.

Well, it’s great fun until someone tries to _shoot_ him. And misses. What the _hell_?

“Behind you!” calls a ghost lingering in one of the seats, not one Len knows. “The usher!”

Len turns and aims at the now-fleeing would-be assassin, some amateur asshole with another Santini gun, and this time he aims so that the Flash won’t be able to speed the bastard away in time.

That bullet tore Len’s fucking coat, and he’s _not_ dying before he makes up with Mick. 

…also, Lisa would kill him if he made up with Mick as a ghost. Not that he can become a ghost. But Lisa would still kill him if he got injured, because he wouldn't be able to keep himself from making the joke about it.

Len waves at the helpful ghost in the seats, who beams and waves back, then heads out of the theater before the Streak can get over the surprise. 

Len’s gotten everything he wants out of that particular encounter, after all. He got to try out his new gun, he incurred no collateral damage (except the guy that shot him, fuck that guy), and, best of all, he’s now got a solid grip on what makes the Streak – the kid _seriously_ needs a better superhero name – tick. 

“What’s a good place to destabilize a runner?” Len asks a passing ghost as he meanders away from the theater through the alleyways of Central City, twist and turns that make it impossible even for a speedster to find him. 

“Uh, a carousel?”

“Does Central even _have_ one of those?”

“Man, I don’t know, I’m from Chicago.”

Len frowns at him. “Why’re you _here_ , then?”

The ghost shrugs. “Dunno. Felt like it.”

Len shakes his head. Weird. He’s never met an _out of town_ ghost in Central before; usually they stick around where they died and he only sees them when he goes to where that is. Mick excepted, of course. As always. “What’s your regret?” Len asks, curious.

“Not saying good-bye to my wife,” the ghost says promptly. “We lived together, worked together, owned our business together, did everything together – and then I took a different way home one night, to surprise her, but it was late and the road was wet and, well. That was it.”

Len might be feeling a bit sentimental about partners right now, so he tosses the guy some life, just enough to strengthen him for visibility. Enough for a goodbye. 

“Use it well,” Len tells him, and his voice echoes a little strangely, but the guy straightens up and nods, his eyes avid, turning and rushing away.

Okay, that was definitely weird. 

Ugh, Len doesn’t have _time_ to deal with his curse taking a brand new twist. He’s got a partner to win back.

“Julie?” he asks the air, wondering if she’s near enough to – ah, there she is.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Place to destabilize a runner. Find me one while I get the diamond. Feel free to take a poll.”

Getting the diamond from the museum is easy. See, Len might prefer complicated plans that let him get in and out with the goods clean and without any evidence that he was ever there, but he didn’t start out that way, and he knows the value of a good smash-and-grab as much as the next guy. If you don't care who sees you do it, then it's always the easiest way to go about it. 

Len’s not bothering with finesse this time. 

Because damnit, he is _getting that diamond_.

Len’s fall-back plan – bribing the museum curator to put the diamond on display despite Len’s obvious attempts to case the place and then going to grab it later in the evening – works like a charm. 

The whole thing goes easy as pie, actually. His cold gun lets him smash through the doorway like he's going through glass – he freaking _loves_ this gun and he’s going to keep it even if he doesn’t have to fight speedsters after this – and a few words and an intimidating stance are enough to get the guard turning and bolting.

The diamond is just where it was supposed to be.

By the time he smashes the glass and grabs it, Julie’s back.

“Majority say a train,” she reports. “Consistent pattern, but unstable enough – you could knock him off his feet.”

Len smiles. “Perfect.”

Normally Len avoids the train-tracks, which are a rich gathering place for suicides and crashes and misery, but he’s feeling pretty damn pumped up today.

He’s got the diamond, he’s got the cold gun, he’s got the heat gun, and he’s about to bag himself a superhero.

Mick’s gonna be _so_ proud.

The Streak comes after Len, just as Len knew he would. Not one for forward thinking or pre-planning, this Streak. 

Len destabilizes the train and watches with amusement as the poor kid rushes to get everyone off the tracks, stopping afterwards just long enough to catch his breath – and for Len to freeze him in place with a well-placed shot of the gun.

Now it’s time to end it.

Though Len’s gotta admit, now that he’s managed to freeze the Streak in place, he feels kind of bad about just offing him, then and there. 

Kid’s probably got a ton of regrets, what with signing up for _superheroism_. If Len kills him, odds are he’ll just have to put up with him as a ghost, and that’ll be a pain. Maybe he should let him go.

Besides, if he lets him go, he can bring Mick with him next time he wants to face off against a superhero. Mick’ll enjoy that even more than the diamond and the heat gun.

Well, maybe not more than the heat gun. 

But how to let the kid go now while still saving face?

“Let him go!” a voice shouts behind him. 

Len turns – and stares, jaw falling slightly open.

“This is a prototype cold gun,” says the kid wielding the lumpy, massive, unshapely device. There’s a handful of others standing behind him, helping him hoist it up. “Four times the size, four times the power. Unless you want a taste of your own medicine, I’d back the hell up.”

Julie floats over to examine it. “It’s a vacuum with some LED lights,” she reports.

“Definitely,” another ghost says. “I worked a story that sold these. Definitely a vacuum.”

“Lemme see,” another one says, floating up. “Oh, wow. Is he really trying to use that as intimidation? He’d better roll a nat-20, that’s all I’m say.”

“You like D&D?” Julie says brightening. “That’s awesome!”

Right, Len needs to get out of here before he gets distracted arguing with ghosts, and possibly helping people roll up new character sheets. Now is not the time. 

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” Len points out to the kid. He’s walked enough newbies through the process that he knows that the kid’s first few attempts are highly unlikely to be fatal.

Even if he wasn’t talking about shooting Len with a _vacuum cleaner_.

The kid swallows, but barrels on forward on nothing but sheer bravado. “There’s a first time for everything, _Captain Cold_.”

Captain Cold?

Who is -

Holy crap, is that supposed to be _Len_? Is that his supervillain name? He has a supervillain name!

Okay, that’s just plain awesome. Len clearly needs to keep these stupid idiots alive just long enough to get Mick his own superhero name.

Supervillain name.

Whatever.

Oh, what the hell, he’ll give the kid his nat-20 roll. “You win, kid,” he informs the Streak. “I’ll see you around.” 

He turns to go.

“Hey, leave the diamond!”

Len shoots the kid with the vacuum a skeptical expression. “Don’t push your luck.”

And then, diamond and guns in hand, he goes home.

There might be a bit of a spring to his step. He’s not admitting anything.

The way the ghosts crowd around him to try to get high off the cheeriness he’s letting off might be admitting something, but he shoos them off when he gets to the front door. 

It occurs to him that he didn’t use to have quite so many ghosts crowded up to him – and they’re not unquiet ones aiming for a handful, they’re friendlies, just wanting to grab energy emanating off of him. He’s not sure when that happened. 

Well, whatever. He’ll worry about it later. 

Right now, he’s got Mick to think about.

Len licks his lips and goes inside. Mick should be back by now.

Sure enough, Mick’s in front of the TV.

“Mick,” Len says.

“Hey, _Captain Cold_ ,” Mick says, turning to smile at him. A real smile, with a spark of amusement in his eyes; it’s been too long since Len’s seen that. “You end up beating your superhero?”

“He lives to fight another day,” Len replies. “Mick. Can we talk?”

Mick’s brow wrinkles. “If it’s about the jobs –”

“It’s more than that,” Len says, and brings out the heat gun, popping open the box and placing it on the table in front of Mick. 

Mick leans forward to examine it. “This is…”

“A heat gun,” Len says. “Heat, to match my cold. It, uh, shoots fire. Via high powered waves of heat. It’s for you.”

For all of his protestations to the contrary, Mick’s not actually all that slow. “You want me to be a supervillain with you?”

“I want you to be by my side again,” Len says. “I want you to be by my side, _always_ , for better or for worse, through every screw-up, your mistakes and mine. I want to have every part of you. I want to share your life, and you to share mine.”

Mick swallows. “Lenny,” he says, obviously going for humor. “That sounds a bit like –”

Clearly, Len’s going to have to be blunt about this.

Len gets down on one knee.

“Len!”

“Mick,” Len says, aiming for calm and probably missing. The only thing he knows about Christian wedding traditions he knows from television, but it’ll have to do. He pulls the diamond out of his pocket and offers it up. “Wanna – _would you_ ,” he corrects himself, “do me the honor of marrying me?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mick says with feeling, which is less good than Len was hoping for (yes, let’s do this thing) but not as bad as he was fearing (I don’t think this is a good idea, maybe we should rethink the whole partnership thing). “You remember that I’m _dead_ , right?”

“So what?” Len says. “I found your original birth certificate. We’ll just tell them you look real good for your age, and skip the part with the death certificate. People do it with identity theft all the time.”

“Your marriage proposal involves _identity theft_?”

“Well, yeah. As you said, you’re dead; it makes things tricky. You gonna give me an answer or what? My leg’s killing me here.”

“Oh, for the love of – yes, yes, get up already.”

“That’s a yes to the marriage, right?” Len asks, getting up, Nora stepping forward out of the wall to grab his hand to help hoist him up, stealing just enough energy to take his hand. He only has eyes for Mick, though.

“Yes,” Mick says, flushing. “I guess. Since you went _supervillain_ for me, you _moron_.”

“I thought I was an idiot?”

“You’re both,” Nora opines, then smiles. “Congratulations, both of you. You’re handling it much better than the time I proposed to my husband.”

“...this is better?” Mick says dubiously.

“You said yes,” Len points out. He’s grinning and can’t seem to stop. “Went pretty well in my book.”

“She said husband,” Mick argues. “So he said yes, too.”

“Oh, he did. After about five minutes of hyperventilating,” Nora says, smirking. “He’d planned a nice, quiet proposal after a romantic dinner. I ended up finding the ring first, so I did one of those big surprise proposals – you know the ones, with a flash mob and the local cheerleading squad and all that.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Nearly gave him heart palpitations. It was amazing.”

“I can’t have heart palpitations,” Mick points out. “I’m _dead_.”

“Dead and engaged,” Len says.

Mick’s face melts into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Dead and engaged. Guess I am.”

“And no one can say I didn’t get you the biggest rock.”

“Wait. Is _that_ why you stole the stupid thing?!”

“I was making a _point_.”

“About what? You being an adrenaline junkie klepto? I already knew that!”

“You being as hard-headed as a _goddamn diamond_ , that’s what!”

“Hey, you’re the one who just offered to marry me.”

“And I meant it, too. Doesn’t mean you’re not a stubborn little –”

“Oh, just _kiss already_ ,” Nora says.


	10. 9

Len’s noticed that there have been more ghosts around recently.

Like, a lot more.

He’s not entirely sure what to do about it.

“Maybe it’s because you’re getting laid regularly,” Julie suggests.

“He was getting laid regularly before,” Nora objects. 

“Maybe marriage noogie’s got some extra juicing powers.”

“As someone who was married,” Nora sniffs, “it most certainly does _not_.”

“Please stop,” Len says to them, pinching the bridge of his nose.

They fall quiet.

“That was sarcasm,” he adds.

“Have you considered that you’re becoming more powerful?” Nora asks. 

Len makes a face at that. That does not sound appealing, thanks. “I still only have as much life as I have,” he points out.

“You’re getting older,” Julie says. “You should have, like, _less_ life now, right? Since you’re using it up living it? But instead, it’s like you have…more.”

It _has_ been easier to give extra life to the ghosts, come to think of it. Len hasn’t been so tired out by it recently, even though he’s giving more of it away because there are just so many friendlies around.

“I’m more worried about the fact that your mom said that people like you start to _die_ around this age,” Mick says from where he's _supposed_ to be napping in Len’s lap. They’re on their goddamn honeymoon. Mick needs to relax more.

Okay, okay, the honeymoon’s been going on a couple of months now, but whatever. They’re back in Central – the wedding ceremony was lovely, Lisa was the world’s most kick-ass flowergirl-slash-maid-of-honor-slash-best-man, the officiant rabbi was a Gotham transplant and had the amazing ability to ignore everything but what was going on right in front of him, and the justice of the peace even got over having a gun held to his head enough to clap by the end of it all – but they’d opted for a nice stay-low-at-home vacation for their honeymoon and damnit, Len doesn’t want to let go of the honeymoon mood just yet.

Even if Mick does seem intent on spoiling it.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Len says, even though he has noticed an increase in attacks from the unquiet dead recently. _Everyone’s_ noticed the increase in attacks. That’s why they ended up deciding against going to Aruba or Iceland; Mick didn’t want to risk going somewhere where they didn’t have a good supply of friendly ghosts. “I’m not that old yet.”

“You said your family dies when they hit 50,” Mick says darkly.

“I’m only forty,” Len points out. “I’ve still got a few more years. Besides, forget the unquiet dead attacks! There are more friendlies now, and no one’s gotten through the wall yet.”

Even before they got over themselves and gotten back together, Mick was taking advantage of the increase in friendly ghosts, which seem to come in from all over nowadays, to set up a rotating defensive ‘wall’ to protect Len from the unquiet dead. Len would protest, but the ghosts are so _happy_ to help him out. He barely has to do anything for them, though he tries whenever possible to still spread out some life to them where he can. 

He is _not_ a necromancer.

“Are we going to go back and take on the Flash again soon?” Mick asks, changing the subject when he senses the downward change in Len’s mood. 

Mick’s always known the right thing to say to cheer Len up. “Yep,” Len says, mood lightening already. “We’ll lure him out and set up a big showdown in front of all the cameras, make a big show of it. They won’t be able to deny he exists – or that supervillains like us do – after that.”

“How do we get him to come to a pre-arranged time and place without screwing us in advance?” Mick asks, sounding a touch dubious.

“No idea,” Len says. “Try to steal something really fancy? Kidnap somebody?”

“Let’s call that Plan A and Plan B,” Mick says.

Plan A does not work, so Plan B it is. 

They end up kidnapping one of the girls that helped ‘stop’ Len the time before, since _apparently_ trying to steal high-end luxury cars and _successfully_ stealing an intensely modernistic painting worth millions of dollars isn’t enough to catch the Flash’s interest these days. 

Len’s not pouting about it, no matter what Mick says. 

(Sure, he might've made a comment about certain superheroes getting snobby, but that's hardly pouting.)

“Sorry about this,” Len tells the young woman they kidnap, a doctor of some variety from what Len can tell. “I don’t think vacuum-boy has left his lab in something like a week, so you were my only option.”

“Your only – wait. _Vacuum-boy_?”

“Long black hair, kinda short, threatened me with a vacuum cleaner gussied up with some LED lights?”

“Uh, I mean, I guess – wait. You _knew_ about that?”

“Well, yeah,” Len says with a shrug. “I _have_ seen industrial strength vacuum cleaners before. Left because I didn’t see any need to finish off the Streak – wait, it’s the Flash now, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, blinking. “Uh. If you don’t see any need to attack the Flash, then...what are you doing now?”

“Establishing my supervillain bona fides,” Len tells her. “ _Obviously._ No one has officially confirmed the superhero yet, which is a pain. Once we have a confirmed superhero, then _we_ can be confirmed supervillains.”

“Just like in the comics,” Mick says gleefully.

“You’re both nuts,” the girl opines, but she’s stopped screaming and she looks a lot calmer now, which was what Len was going for. Slightly incredulous and disdainful, too, but whatever. 

“It’s a matter of opinion,” Len says with a shrug. “Any place you’d prefer to be kept?”

“You’re _asking_ me?”

“I really only need you for the video threatening the Flash and naming the place and time,” Len points out. “After that, you just need to sit tight till our fight is over, and you’re good to go. Would you like a nice spooky warehouse or are you more the comfortable coffee shop sort of kidnapee?”

“You’re very strange.”

“You have _no idea_ ,” Mick says with a smirk. 

Len rolls his eyes at Mick. He’s actually quite proud of that, thanks. 

They end up taking her to an unused apartment that Len knows. It’s mostly used by the Feds when they’re phonetapping the local Families, but they don’t have any ongoing stings right now. It’s nice, pleasant, but empty.

Well. _Mostly_ empty. 

“Julie, Deena, make sure she doesn’t leave or use the phone,” Len says, and holds out his hands. Each one grabs a hand and shivers into translucence – still invisible to Caitlin Snow, which turns out to be the doctor’s name, but enough power for a decent poltergeisting. They'll keep her inside the room, and if Len knows how to read people, and he does, the mystery of why she can't walk out the open door will be enough to keep Miss Snow from doing anything rash.

“Nora, Rakesh, Eli, you’re with me,” Len instructs, heading down to the car. “Mick, you take George and Betty.”

“I don’t need guards.”

“As _back-up_ , Mick.”

“Isn’t Plan A for us to get captured so we’re confirmed as supervillains?”

“Well, _yes_. That's not the _point_. We want to be captured, yes, but we want to be captured in _style_ \- well, so long as we don’t end up having to waste the guy. Have some dignity, Mick.”

Mick smirks and pets his gun. “I think we’re probably going to waste the guy.”

“Probably,” Len confirms cheerfully. He’ll learn to deal with a superhero ghost if it makes Mick keep smiling. 

Sure enough, the hero shows up to the stand-off and it’s all going well: they’re exchanging quips, fighting in the street – all the police hanging back along with the media to watch with big wide-open eyes as Len and Mick _kick the kid’s ass_ – and then –

Well, that's when it goes wrong.

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Nora suddenly shrieks, seeing the kid stumble and rub at his face in what Len would not have taken to be a sufficiently characteristic way to enable someone to identify him under that mask but which apparently works for Nora. “ _Barry_? Is that Barry? Len – you’ve got to stop – that’s _Barry_ – that’s my _son_ –”

“Well, shit,” Len says, and glances over at Mick. They can’t kill Nora’s baby boy, about whom they’ve heard so much over the years. 

Guess they're going to have to go for being captured early. 

Mick sighs, but nods. “Wanna ghostbusters it?” he suggests. They’ve already learned not to cross their guns’ streams, thanks to some incautious experimenting, but Mick’s not wrong, it _would_ make for a splendid finale to their fight. 

“I’ll take left, you take right,” Len says, and they split up, letting the Flash run between them. 

The resulting explosion when their guns clash is _very_ impressive.

Len’s very happy he had a few ghosts helping to cushion him when he gets thrown backwards, because otherwise, _ouch_. It’s totally worth the minimal loss of life it takes to power them up enough to help catch him. Explosions hurt.

“Guess you win this time, Flash,” he tells what had damn well _better_ be Barry Allen under that cowl. 

“There won’t be a next time,” the superhero says confidently. Incorrectly, as it happens, but it’s nice to see he has confidence.

They get hauled through the police station in the traditional handcuffed walk of shame. Len’s keeping an eye out on the crowd and sure enough, there he is, Barry Allen, CSI, just like Nora says.

About the right height and size to be the Flash, too.

“You’d better be right,” Len mutters under his breath.

“I’m sure,” Nora says. “Want me to get your guns back?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

It takes Lisa less than ten minutes to break them out of the prison transport with the help of several of Len’s ghosts. No sweat.

Of course, after that, Len can’t just _leave it_. Nora’s gotten all mopey about her baby boy putting himself in danger and her not able to help, Mick’s incredibly invested in the whole supervillain thing since it’s practically part of their marriage vows – something has to be done.

Some sort of agreement has to be reached, and Len knows just the way to do it. He has a plan.

That plan doesn’t stop him from kidnapping Cisco and his brother the next time he’s in town. 

“I need a few improvements,” he says, plopping his gun down in front of Cisco. “And Lisa needs one of her own.”

“You tricked me,” Cisco says sulkily to Lisa.

“I meant it,” she says. “You _are_ cute.”

“And she _is_ a mechanical engineer,” Len says dryly, having heard the entire story from Betty. “Stop judging people by their looks, Cisco – it is Cisco, is it?”

“Yeah,” Cisco says. “And if you think I’m going to –”

“You are,” Len says. “You don’t want something to happen to your brother, do you?”

Once everything is put together, Len examines the new guns and the improvements he’d requested, all in pristine condition since he’d had a ghost alert him every time Cisco tried something squirrelly. The improvements should make the gun harder to track, even by its creator, and Len _loves_ the fact that his ‘cold field’ idea seems to actually be plausible, even if Cisco isn’t entirely sure it obeys the laws of physics. “Good,” Len says. “Thanks for your contribution. Now it’s time for you two to go.”

Both young men gulp audibly.

“So, where would you like to be dropped off?” Len asks, mood lightening because of their visible terror. He’s not usually a ‘better to be feared’ sort of guy, but, hey, he _is_ a supervillain now.

“Uh,” Cisco says, and then, after a few moments when Len doesn’t continue, asks, “Are you serious?”

“Entirely.”

“It’s not like a ‘drop off by the hospital or the morgue’ sort of thing, is it?”

“Not unless you really want to,” Len says. He hopes not; he refuses to go anywhere near the city morgue, for obvious reasons. He has enough ghosts. Besides, it’s not like Cisco didn’t give him everything he wanted. “How about ice cream?”

“What?”

He drops them off at Friedlander’s Ice Cream Parlor and buys them each a cone.

Social niceties and sheer shock keep them there long enough for Len to get away.

Sure enough, Len’s four blocks away before he’s passed by a familiar crackle of lightning. The Flash is no doubt looking for a man in a parka, not a man in a hoodie reading a magazine in the nearby park with a cute girl on his arm.

“Cute,” Len says, shaking his head at the passing superhero. 

“Let’s go get that armored car,” Lisa says, lifting her head from Len’s shoulder, her eyes twinkling. “You promised you’d get me a nice necklace, Lenny.”

Len’s not exactly _expecting_ to be kidnapped by an angry speedster mid-heist, but he’s not exactly surprised, either. Some people take a spot of kidnapping and ice cream so personally.

It doesn’t matter. Plan Ally-The-Flash is officially a go.

“You kidnapped Cisco,” the Flash snaps. 

“Good to see you again, Flash,” Len drawls. “Or should I say – Barry Allen?”

The Flash frowns, shifting uneasily, then crosses his arms. “I don’t know what you’re –”

Len decides to have pity on him and nods. On his signal, Julie yanks back his cowl, sliding her ghostly hands all the way through the suit, up and down from toes to top, her ghostly interference disabling all the electronics that might serve to record or broadcast this conversation. She probably cops a feel, too, but Len's not going to hold that against her. 

“Barry Allen,” Len says, smirking. “I knew it.”

Barry yelps and lifts his hands to his cowl. “You knew already,” he says accusingly, though he does sound somewhat bewildered by that fact. “But Cisco didn’t tell you; he says you didn’t even ask – how did you do that bit with the cowl? Something with Cisco’s improved guns?”

“You can’t blame Cisco for improving our guns,” Len says, ignoring the original question. “I put him in a tight spot.”

“Same kind I’ve got you in right now,” Barry replies, rallying.

“Can’t really stop me now that I know who you are,” Len points out.

“I _could_ speed you to my own private prison where you’ll never see the light of day,” the kid replies cockily.

Len’s eyebrows go up. “Now, now,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s not at _all_ the Barry Allen I’d been hearing so much about.”

“You mean Cisco? Because –”

“You know what I like about this part of the woods?” Len says musingly. “It’s dark, there’s a full moon out. Perfect haunting weather.”

“ _Haunting_? What are you talking about?”

“Ghosts,” Len says.

“Ghosts,” Barry says skeptically. “You believe in ghosts?”

“Says the man who runs at Mach 3,” Len says.

“…point,” Barry concedes. “So, you mean, like possession and raising the dead and stuff?”

“No, not _possession_. That’s mediums; they’re weird. And raising the dead is necromancy, and I am _not_ a necromancer.” 

“Oo-kay,” Barry says. “Sure. No one was saying you were, Mr. super judgy about stuff that doesn’t exist. Besides, why are we even talking about ghosts, anyway?”

“It’s actually quite relevant to the situation, I think you’ll find.”

Barry arches his eyebrows scornfully, crossing his arms. “Right. How, exactly?”

“There’s a house in the suburbs,” Len says. “Very quiet, very nice, not far from where you live now. There was a ghost there. Lovely lady, thirty-something, very dead – one stab wound to the chest.”

Barry’s back stiffens. “So you figured out my name and can read the newspapers. Big whoop.”

“Your favorite book as a kid was the _Runaway Dinosaur_ ,” Len says. “You have no space to talk about who can and cannot read.”

“…how do you know that?”

“I told you, kid,” Len says. “Ghosts. Specifically, this one.” 

He nods permission at Nora, who’s only been bouncing around waiting for her cue. She steps forward, solidifying. 

Well, mostly solidifying; she’s not used to having mass. She’s still translucent and incorporeal. But she’s back on the visible spectrum.

“Mom?” Barry croaks. 

“Oh, _baby_ ,” she says, holding out her arms to him. “My beautiful boy – look how you’ve grown! I’m so proud of you – so proud –”

“If this is some sort of trick –” Barry says, but his eyes are wide and glassy with tears.

“No trick, baby,” she says. “I’m sorry; I was the one who told Len it was you. I figured it out when you were fighting – I had to get him to stop shooting at you, and he wouldn’t listen if I didn’t tell him –”

“You…” Barry swallows. “You can’t be real. Some sort of holographic projection.”

“Len, could you go away for a minute?” Nora asks. “I want to talk to my son in private.”

Len sighs and walks over to a nearby tree. For good measure, he also closes his eyes, covers his ears, and starts loudly humming something. He’s pretty sure it’s “Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This”, but he can’t help his sense of humor.

He starts in surprise when a hand falls on his shoulder, hand dropping automatically to his gun.

“Sorry!” Barry yelps.

Len turns to face him.

The kid’s been crying. He’s one of those unfairly attractive criers, who gets a bit of a red face and tear tracks down his cheeks and maybe a little bit of swelling in the eyes, nothing like the snot-nosed bawling that Lisa used to do when she was a kid. “Um,” he says. “Mom says you can help her – if I wanted to hug her?”

Len refrains from rolling his eyes and _pushes_ the life into her until she shimmers almost solid.

Barry falls into her arms with a choked-off sob.

“Don’t mention this to _anybody_ ,” Len says grouchily. “Either of you!”

“Thank you,” Barry says, still clutching at his mother. “ _Thank you_.”

“I told you he’s not so bad,” Nora says, her own face similarly wet. 

“I’ll have you know I’m _very_ bad,” Len says. “Liar, thief, murderer, supervillain – probably going to go steal something _right after_ we finish this little chat –”

“I can’t let you keep stealing whatever you want, whenever you feel like it,” Barry objects, pulling away just enough to twist to look at Len without actually letting go of Nora. “That needs to end.”

“Uh, yes, you _can_ let me do it,” Len says. “You just don’t _want_ to.”

“Couldn’t you just _stop_?”

“No. I’m a supervillain now. I like what I do. The adrenaline, the thrill of the chase – same reason you keep running after guys like me. I love this game, and I’m _very_ good at it.”

“Go play it somewhere else, then!” Barry exclaims.

“I take my ghosts with me when I do,” Len says. Barry’s arms curl tighter around his mother’s waist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Besides, this city is my home. I ain’t leaving it because you’ve got moral qualms about my chosen profession.”

“Can’t we find a compromise or something?” Barry asks. “I can’t just let you be.”

“I’m not expecting you to,” Len says patiently. “I’m going to keep stealing, you’re going to keep trying to stop me, the best man wins. You make me up my game. I like being a supervillain, but to be a supervillain, you need a good superhero.” He grins. “Like I said. Adrenaline.”

Barry can’t help but smile back. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I guess I kind of see your point. But one thing – from here on out, no one else dies. If you’re as good as you say you are, you don’t have to kill anyone to get what you want.”

“That’s true,” Len says, and sighs. “Fine, agreed. I’ve mostly given up the killing anyhow, unless they’ve explicitly tried to kill me recently.”

“Really?”

“It just makes more ghosts,” Len says. “There’s been a disturbing increase in them lately.”

“…really?”

Len shrugs. It’s not really Barry’s problem. “So do we have a deal?”

“Yeah,” Barry says. “You don’t kill anyone, I fight you – why do we have to fight?”

“Fun.”

“…having a nemesis who doesn’t kill people would be kind of cool,” Barry concedes. "Not going to lie about that."

“I know, right?” Mick says, stepping out from the trees with a bit of a scowl. It took him a while to find them; Lisa must have insisted on cracking the armored car first. “Just like in the comics.”

“Yeah, just like – holy crap, I’m a living comic book.”

“Are you _just_ realizing that?” Len asks. " _Now?_ "

“It’s not the superhero stuff,” Barry says. “It’s more – I’ve been having this problem – there’s this girl, and I’ve been – wow. I’m an asshole.”

Len arches an eyebrow.

“I’ve maybe kinda been treating her like she’s my love interest instead of a person,” Barry says, wincing.

“ _Barry_ ,” Nora says disapprovingly. 

“I’ll be better now!”

“Good.”

“God, Mom,” he says, turning to pull her in close again. “I just – I’ve missed you so much. _Mom_. Oh, _mom_ …”

“My beautiful boy,” she says, embracing him in return and kissing his cheek. “My beautiful, beautiful boy…”

Barry sniffs. “Can – will you let me see her again?” he asks Len.

“I was planning on sending her along with you as a good faith gesture on my part of the deal,” Len says dryly. “But if you’d prefer to settle for just a no-killing pact…”

“Wait, what? You _are_?”

Len shrugs. “She’s been moping a lot recently,” he says, understating the situation. She'd fallen into a depression about eight months into the coma and refused to leave his house for weeks and weeks. “I’ve given her enough juice that she should be able to stick around for a while, as long as she stays invisible – you’ll be able to hear her, talk to her, but seeing her…well, you can probably see her in mirrors and stuff. Ghosts can do that easier for some reason. But not all the time like now, or she'll run out.”

“That’s fine,” Barry says. He’s crying again, little sobs and heaving breaths as he tries to keep control. “That's totally fine. She can stay invisible. I don't mind. Thank you. I can’t even begin - I - just – _thank you_.”

“Just remember you owe me one,” Len says flippantly.

“I owe you a lot more than that,” Barry says, sounding entirely sincere.

Len hates sincerity. It makes him uncomfortable. He looks around. “Don’t suppose you can give me a ride back to the city?” he asks.

“Oh! Yeah. Sure. Uh, I can only take one of you at a time, though,” he says, glancing at Mick.

“S’fine,” Mick says tolerantly. “I’ll float along.”

“Float – wait, you’re a ghost, too?”

Mick smirks.

“But you’re so _solid_!”

“Lenny would’ve had trouble marrying me if I wasn’t,” Mick says.

Barry’s nodding, and then – “Wait. Before or _after_?”

Mick laughs.


	11. 10

“I’m not helping you smuggle supervillains out of this city!” Len yelps. “You owe _me_ a favor, kiddo, not vice versa!”

He's been keeping a low profile these last few weeks - a few heists in Keystone, a few jaunts further away, nothing that would disturb Barry and Nora's bonding time - but he still hangs out at Saints and Sinners on a regular basis, and that's where they found him. 

Len blames Nora for telling Barry the location of his usual haunts.

But not as much as he blames Barry for coming to him with the world's _stupidest_ suggestion. 

“You don’t understand –” Barry starts.

“No!” 

“But the city – ”

“No means _no_.”

“Len –” Nora starts, floating behind Barry, wringing her hands.

“Both of you!" Len exclaims, glaring at both of them, even as he gestures for the bartender to clear the place. "What the hell? When did you two start thinking of me as a go-to charity dispenser? I’m a _supervillain_. I even have the action figures to prove it!”

Mick is very, very proud of the action figures. 

“But you’re a _good_ one,” Barry says.

"Yes. Very good at being very bad."

"That's not what I meant -"

“I know what you _meant_ , and I am _not_. Plus I’ve got my own problems to deal with – don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Nora, but I think the Santini Family has been trying to _assassinate_ me –”

“But _Len_ –” Barry says, and trails off.

Len makes the mistake of turning back to look at them.

Turns out Barry's got a hell of a set of puppy dog eyes.

Nora, too. It's clearly a familial trait. 

Also, Barry’s picked up Nora’s habit of calling him ‘Len’ instead of ‘Snart’ somewhere along the line and Len’s always been weak to a good set of puppy eyes accompanying his given name. 

He blames Mick and Lisa for that.

But he's not going to give in, because -

Because -

Oh, damn it.

"You've got to be kidding me," Len says, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to keep off the headache he swears is coming for him. "Smuggling supervillains. It even rhymes."

They both brighten at the fact that he's stopped resisting so hard.

"That doesn't mean I agree," Len reminds them, though he suspects Nora knows him well enough to know that he's just resisting the inevitable out of sheer stubbornness at this point. "Also, Nora, I thought we agreed that you'd have the whole 'why private prisons are wrong' talk with him. Why are these guys even still _there_?"

"We _did_ have that talk," she says, managing to look simultaneously penitent and embarrassed. "We just got a little distracted – you see, I was hanging around in STAR Labs, waiting for Barry, who wanted a bit of _private_ time -"

"I'm an adult, Mom," Barry says, turning bright red. "It's not that weird to not want your mom around all the time and possibly coming through walls at awkward moments."

Len, who has had to deal with many, _many_ such an awkward moment growing up, understands completely. 

"Anyway," she says, "That's not important. While I was there, I saw Wells. I mean, not Wells, we don't think it's Wells. The man who calls himself Wells. He didn’t realize I was there, of course, I was invisible, but he - he stood up, out of his wheelchair - and he _ran_. Not regular running. He ran the way Barry runs, the way a speedster runs – except unlike Barry, he wore yellow and trailed red lightning."

Len blinks. " _Harrison Wells_ is the man who killed you?" 

"The man masquerading as him is," Nora agrees.

"We're planning to capture him," Barry says earnestly. His puppy dog eyes game is spot on. "We need to get the supervillain metas out of the way so that we can catch him - Len, this means we have a chance of avenging my mom and freeing my dad! We just need your help for the plan -”

“Didn’t the first plan you mention along these lines fail?” Len asks suspiciously. “Which is _why_ he escaped and is wreaking havoc and you need to get a bunch of supervillains out of town?”

“Well, yes, okay, we let him go free for a little at first, trying to get him to confess, but there was no way to guess that he was secretly recording us. But how were we to know that he’d convince Hannibal Bates to shape-shift into him!” Barry exclaims.

“I would’ve done it,” Len points out. "If I had access to cameras and a shapeshifter." 

And didn't have ghosts.

Actually, given the resources he _does_ have, he could -

This is not a helpful line of thought.

“Not everyone’s a supervillain, Len,” Nora says briskly. “Anyway, we have a better plan this time.”

“We just need some help. From you. Maybe from Mick and Lisa too – wait, Lisa's not dead, is she? Because Cisco is, like, _super_ into -"

"She's not dead," Len says, giving up and just putting his head into his hands. "If I give you her number to give to Cisco, will you lay off?"

"Is she interested?"

"How the hell would I know if – " Len cuts off and sighs. "Apparently the ghost consensus is yes."

Barry looks over to where Nora is hovering. "It is," she says, laughing. "Everyone here just shouted 'YES SHE IS' at the top of their lungs."

"Your life is, like, the _most_ awesome," Barry tells Len, and damn him, he even sounds sincere about it. “And I’m a _superhero_ , so I know awesome.”

"Given that seeing ghosts is likely to kill me before I turn fifty and I’m already hitting forty, not so much," Len says tersely. He's still amazed by how far he's gotten.

"...oh," Barry says, frowning. "Really? We can't let that happen."

"I'm so happy you got super-speed," Len tells Barry, rolling his eyes. "If you got my curse instead, you'd be dead inside a year."

"Why's that?"

"’cause you’ve got a serious problem accepting the _inevitability of death_ , you strawberry-colored sparkplug. Not to mention the fact that you’re a reckless idiot. Do your friends even know you're here?" Len asks, gesturing around the now-vacant interior of Saints. 

"Well, kinda?" Barry hedges, his shoulders going up to his ears. 

"Kinda?" Len asks, having a sinking sensation that he's about to hear something incredibly stupid. "What do you mean, _kinda_?"

"Well, I mean, I didn't tell them about the ghost thing," Barry says. "Mom says most people don't believe in them, and I didn't want my friends to think I was crazy – well, think I was crazy _again_ , I kinda had this supernatural blog for a while that on second thought you _totally_ don’t need to know about so just maybe forget that I ever mentioned it – and, well, anyway, getting back to my friends, I just, you know, didn't mention the whole ghost thing or the mom thing or any of that. But I _did_ tell them I was going to ask you for help!"

Len stares at him, making a mental note to look up that blog; judging by Nora's smirk, it's undoubtedly amazing. But still, that fades in importance next to the fact that Barry came to Saints - "Based on nothing more than, what? My record of _supervillainy_?"

"I like this kid," Mick opines from Saints' kitchen, poking his head out. "Kid, want food?"

"He always wants food," Nora says fondly. "Let me come back there with you; I'll tell you his favorites."

"Yeah, cool."

Len groans. He knows how to read Mick’s reaction: Len is now officially outnumbered by people who want to help out. Damnit, as he keeps reminding Mick, they're _villains_ , now. Villains don’t go around helping people, that’s what makes them villains instead of heroes. 

On the other hand, as Nora's always reminding him, ensuring continuing marital bliss requires some measure of sacrifice, and if Mick wants to go… 

"Okay, okay," Len says with a sigh. "I’m in. Tell me your plan."

Five minutes of biting his tongue later, Len says, "That is a _terrible_ plan."

"What are you thinking, then?" Barry asks, crossing his arms.

"Same start – me helping you escort the bad guys to the drop off point, but instead of you putting them on a plane, I take the metas and send them out of the city," Len says. "I'll enforce it, too. That way you don't worry about where they are, about them fighting you at an awkward moment, _or_ about them being _dissected or abused_ in some _private prison_ that you sent them to _without due process_."

Barry pauses for a moment, then says sheepishly, "Yeah, okay. Good point."

Len groans.

He’s going to have to get Nora to really hammer in the ‘private secret illegal prisons are bad’ thing a bit more, it seems.

But if there's one thing Len's good at, it's plans - and when he's in, he's in. 

The escort mission is easy enough to set up, at least. Lisa volunteers to sabotage the transport truck, no doubt because it gives her more flirting time with Cisco; Mick goes invisible and wrangles the ghosts that will be hovering over the escort, ready to help if anything goes wrong but primarily serving as a watchmen; and Len takes point on his motorcycle. 

He's strapping in when Mick shows up.

"Yeah?" Len asks.

"Got a new recruit," Mick grunts. "Been snooping around, apparently. Knows the whole plan, but says he thinks someone on the good-doers team still called ARGUS to come in and pick up the metas."

"ARGUS? Why? We ain't handing anyone over to ‘em. Part of the agreement with Barry – the whole transporation gig is all acting to get the metas to feel indebted to me so they don’t cause trouble on their way outta town. No need for anyone to involve ARGUS at all."

"If I had to bet," Mick says, "it’s probably someone thinking that if government – quasi-government? – authority shows up, Barry will buckle on the giving ‘em up issue."

"Must be Joe," Len says, after a moment of staring in disbelief. "No one underestimates a person more than their overprotective dad, I'm given to understand. No _way_ Barry buckles, not after the tongue-lashing we’ve all given him on the subject."

Mick rolls his eyes, not disagreeing. He'd been there for most of the excruciatingly long lecture Len and Nora had subjected Barry too.

"I assume you've got a plan to handle it?" Len asks, putting on his helmet.

Len is aware that people view him as the planner between the two of them, and they're usually right, but he needs time and space to make his plans. Mick is far better at coming up with plans on the fly to handle problems that arise spontaneously. That's what makes him an excellent enforcer – Len designs the overall plan, Mick makes it actually work by whatever means necessary and reasonable.

Mick grins. He definitely has a plan. "You remember the run-up of which metas we're transporting? One of 'em being Mark Mardon?"

"Weather guy, yeah," Len says. "Say, I didn’t ask Cisco about their nicknames. You think his villain nickname is 'The Weatherman'? Or ‘Storm’? He-Storm, to distinguish him from the comic books?"

"It better not be, because that’s just dumb," Mick says. "Putting that aside, here's the thing - his whole shtick is that he's out for revenge against West and the Flash for bringing down his brother when they first got started. A brother who got the same powers he did. Name of Clyde Mardon."

"Our new ghostly recruit, I'm guessing," Len says, starting to grin. "He gonna knock that ARGUS plane out of the sky?"

"All Clyde needs is enough juice to poltergeist and he assures us that we'll be seeing lightning."

"Excellent plan," Len says approvingly. “Send him to me; I’ll give him what he needs.” Then he hauls Mick in for a kiss. "See you on the other side."

All in all, the job goes well. ARGUS does send a plane, but it gets struck down by lightning, just as planned, and the metas are mostly rescued. Mostly, because one decides to gun for Barry with _laser eyes_ , which, is unacceptable; Len ices him right off because that sort of stupidity deserves to be put to an immediate end. He spends a minute regretting the fatality of his actions – he _really_ needs to figure out that whole cold field idea so that he can do more non-lethal stuff – before he realizes that he’s managed to get lucky and the guy _didn’t_ have enough regrets to become a ghost. 

At any rate, after that little show of force, the metas all give in pretty quick. Len's escorting them out of Central while Barry recovers from his latest bout with the cold gun – if you’re putting on a show, you’d better be ready to sell it good, in Len’s view – and goes to deal with his yellow archenemy problem.

Barry had _better_ have a good plan to capture the guy this time, or Len’s gonna have to take matters into his own hand. At least Nora managed to find time to assure him that both Firestorm and Green Arrow’d been called in for the capture process, which should hopefully increase its chances of success.

But Len’s never been one _not_ to stack the deck. 

"Nora," Len calls.

"Isn't she back with Barry?" Lisa asks from where she's curled up behind him on the motorcycle as he leads the truck filled with meta supervillains out of town.

She is, but Len's found that more and more, the ghosts come when he calls them, no matter where they were originally.

Sure enough, it takes a minute, but then Nora appears alongside their convoy.

Len can _feel_ Lisa's eyebrows go up behind him.

"Nora, what're BB's chances?"

"His name's Barry, not 'Baby Barry'," Nora says, like she hasn't been talking about her 'Beautiful Boy' since Len had first met her. "And – I don't know. Wells – Eobard, he says his name is – is still faster, I think, and he's taught Barry everything he knows."

"The time comes when the Apprentice turns upon the Master," Len intones. "Such is the Speedster code."

"I think you mean 'Sith'," Lisa sniggers. 

"Maybe a little bit. Nora, when we stop, I wanna give you some extra juice, and I want you to save it for the big boss fight, okay?"

"How will I know –"

"You've seen enough movies, TV, video games, the rest. You'll know when it's the big boss fight."

“Why do you even think there _will_ be a big boss fight?” Nora asks, crossing her arms and still easily keeping pace with Len’s bike. Ghosts, always overdramatic. “The plan is to gather everyone into a group and use our numbers to overwhelm Wells – er, Eobard, I think he said his name was? – and put him into a containment unit. No big boss fights.”

“This guy’s been a step ahead of you the whole way,” Len points out. “I’m not disagreeing with your plan, but I’m telling you, there’s going to be a big boss fight, and I want you to be ready.”

"I guess,” Nora says hesitantly.

Len reaches down and pulls a kitchen knife – long and sharp – out of a pouch on the cycle, and hits the gas until they're accelerating even more. He needs more speed for this. Besides, he doesn’t want the metas to see this, and he’s not going so fast that he can’t multitask. "Nora Allen," he says, and his voice has gone weird and echoing again, and he has _no idea why_. He really ought to make some time to look into that. "You died through steel and speed. I kill this knife for you, in the same way, for you to have. Take it as a gift from me to you."

And then he releases it.

Kitchen knives were not meant to hit asphalt at a hundred miles per hour.

He slows down carefully, braking by the city limits and waiting for the metas he's escorting to catch up.

Nora is staring at the knife that's just appeared in her hands. "Len," she says tremulously. "I can't –"

"You can," Len says, and extends a hand to her. "I'm gonna make you a full manifestation, and if Barry can't finish the job, you've gotta do it for him, okay? Your son is a good boy, a hero, and sometimes that's not what's needed."

"I've never killed anyone before."

"You're not killing someone," Lisa puts in. Huh, Nora must be on the audible spectrum at the moment. "You're killing the creature that orphaned your son, imprisoned your husband, killed _you_ , and, according to Cisco, videotaped and manipulated your son for over a decade, shaping his opportunities and decisions in order to eventually kill him."

Nora's fingers tighten on the knife.

"You can do it," Len says encouragingly. Nora was never a violent manifestation, but she's still a ghost - and perhaps more importantly, a mother. "You're probably going to have to."

"Okay," she says, and takes Len's hand. Len feels the strength going – more than normal, since Nora Allen is so very far away from being a violent spirit and he's never raised her so much before, but it's fine; he's not expecting there to be much need for more energy tonight. A large dinner and a good night’s sleep should set him to rights.

"Good luck," Len says, and Lisa echoes it.

Nora nods, and vanishes.

"I hope she puts that knife into that fucker's heart," Lisa says. "Beautiful bit of irony, wouldn't you say?"

"Why do you think I got her a _kitchen_ knife?"

"You drama queen you."

The other metas pull up as well when they see Len idling there, stolen truck coming to a halt. They jump out to look at him. 

"I rescued you," Len tells them. "That earns me something. Now, I want you out of the city for a least six months, lying low, and then I get a heads-up before you come back. And that's _not_ counting the favor you owe me."

One of the metas sneers. "Why should we listen to you?" he asks. 

"Because you’re Central City criminals, the whole lot of you. You've all heard of me," Len points out _again_. "You know my rep. If you listen to me, you’ll get through this, the heat will die down, no problem; you don't, well..."

"We end up dead," one of them finishes. He looks like Clyde, so he must be Mark. "I've heard plenty about you, Snart."

Len shrugs. He's not wrong, even if Len has mostly stopped killing people in the last few years. Unless they’ve tried to kill him or a friend of his, of course. "I'm not gonna ice you for not listening to me on this, since you didn't sign up willingly," he says, ignoring Lisa's quiet groan at the pun. "But if you know what's good for you, you'll listen."

"Six months isn't so long," the nervous looking girl says. Shawna Baez, Len thinks her name is.

"I’ve got another idea," the first one says, sounding a little giddy, and Len's abruptly concerned about the look in his eyes.

"Lisa, _off_ ," he snaps and she scrambles away even as the meta turns into a poison gas and rushes towards Len.

Len barely has time to jump off his bike before lightning hits the ground in front of him, forcing Nimbus – that's his name, Kyle Nimbus; Len's heard of him before, a Family killer-for-hire gone bad – back away from Len.

"Picking sides, Mardon?" Nimbus snarls, reforming his top half like some sort of murderous genie. 

"I didn't – " Mark says, eyes going wide. "That wasn't me!"

"Bullshit! Lightning strikes are your domain, _Weather Wizard_!"

"Wrong Mardon," Len says, and fires the cold gun at the more gaseous parts of Nimbus, freezing them solid and heavy.

Nimbus roars in rage and pain. "You little – "

"For some reason, I take it personally when people try to kill me," Len snarls back. Not just him, no less – attacking him when _Lisa_ is around – that's more than enough for Len. Forget the no killing rule; some things are a step too far. “And when you try, you’d better damn well succeed on the first try – which you didn’t.”

"Your little cold gun doesn't work on me," Nimbus replies, kicking his way out of the ice. Len can see it's not true - he's having trouble moving, now, and he's left some parts of himself behind.

"How do you feel about gold?" Len asks.

"Gold? What about – "

Lisa fires.

The resulting gold statue is very pretty, all gaseous clouds clunking down to the ground.

Just for good measure, Len ices the statue and smashes it with his gun. Then he turns to look at the other metas, who are all wide-eyed. He grins, shoulders relaxing and voice going neutral again now that Nimbus is pretty definitively dead. 

Len can always tell when someone dies. No ghost, either, but that’s pretty standard with psychopaths – you can’t have regrets if you don’t know the feeling.

"Any questions?" Len asks the whole group of them, pointedly not putting his gun down.

"Out of town, six months, yes, sir," the last guy – Bivolo? – says. "Also, I'm never making you mad."

"Good idea," Lisa says. "You _really_ don't want to see that."

The metas leave, in drips and drabs and small groups, but Mardon – Mark – stays behind.

"Can we help you?" Len drawls.

"You said –" he says, hesitating. "Earlier. You said – 'wrong Mardon'?"

"Your brother also had weather powers," Lisa says.

"My brother – Clyde's _dead_."

"Death doesn't stop our reach," Lisa says haughtily. ”Your brother's a ghost."

"He – you can see _ghosts_?"

"Oh, and use them too," Lisa says, smiling in her best fake-sweet manner. "My big brother did tell you not to underestimate us. Listen, you get out of town, do as we say, and then make yourself useful coming back, we'll see what we can do about making him visible for you. Deal?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mardon says, eyes wide and impressed. "No offense, lady, but with a meta power like that, why're you bothering with the golden gun?"

"I like gold," Lisa says. "And ghosts make terrible weapons."

This isn't strictly true, but Len keeps quiet anyway until Mark leaves, practically oozing out awe as he does.

"You know he'll tell everyone you're a ghost-controlling meta, right?" Len asks mildly.

"I'd rather that I get the rep for that than you, big brother," she says. "This way, if anyone tries anything, you'll be able to rescue me."

"I'm assigning you ghost guards."

"Like you don't do that anyway."

"Yeah, but you ain’t supposed to _know_ about 'em."

"I’m not stupid, Lenny – I may not be able to see them, but I know _you_."

"Maybe you two want to stop arguing and get home before the big speedster fight?" Mick suggests, appearing nearby.

"Not the worst idea," Len says.

As he told Nora, he has a bad feeling about the speedster fight. Len knows he's good with plans and Barry’s good with speed, but this Wells-Eobard guy's had a whole decade to plan this out and months to figure out the best ways to get under Barry's skin. If he's anywhere near the planner Barry has made him out to be, he's developed contingencies.

That’s why he gave Nora the knife. 

He can only hope that’s enough. 

Still, Len knows when it's not his fight. If he tries to get involved, even on Barry’s side, he'll just end up distracting the heroes right when they most need to focus.

He _does_ drop Lisa off at the train station, sending her back to continue her masters' program in New York despite her complaints and whining.

"You sure you don't want her around for whatever's gonna happen?" Mick asks.

"I'd rather she not fail out," Len replies. "Plus, y'know, her not dying is rather important to me."

"I feel like you're being biased against the living-challenged."

"That is _not a thing_ and tell Julie that it will _never_ be a thing."

"Stop trying to make fetch happen," a nearby car-accident ghost pipes up.

" _Not_ helping."

“I want to do more about the Santinis,” Mick says grimly. He’s been taking the lead in the Santini investigation, for obvious reasons; they still don’t know why they’ve been taking pot-shots at Len. 

“They’re probably just pissy about me being back on their turf,” Len says. Not for the first time.

“We tried that theory out,” Mick points out. “We let the local Don take us in and gave him what for.”

“He didn’t know anything,” Len replies, revving up his cycle and driving home. “That much was obvious, given that he thought he could scare us away with a _warning_.”

“Which means someone _else_ is trying to gun you down, and we don’t know who, or why, or how to stop them.”

“Mick…”

“Don’t _Mick_ me! I wanna know who’s trying to kill my partner – and then I wanna get my hands on ‘em.”

“You will,” Len assures him. “I’m just saying, I still think it’s some up-and-coming asshole working with the Santinis to prove himself by offing me.”

“And I still think it’s something else.”

“Which is why you’re doing the investigating,” Len points out.

Naturally, less than two days later, someone tries to shoot Len from a _window_.

Mick tries to find them, but they’re gone by the time even he can get there; they must have not even bothered to wait to see if the bullet hit.

“Amateurs,” Len says, scowling. “That could’ve hit someone.”

“That could’ve hit _you_ ,” Mick points out.

“That, too. Okay, fine. Let's go figure this out."


	12. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday, so everyone gets an extra chapter of the deadfic. Enjoy!

It’s been about a week since they dropped off the escaping metas, and they’ve had no luck at all in finding out who's after Len. 

Lisa, safely far away, reports that New York is charming as always, but that the nearby Gothamites have started swinging by to see if the rumors of her newfound powers are true. That's mildly terrifying – Gotham residents are _insane_ , and Len’s not being metaphorical about that – but Lisa assures him that her current ghost crew, which now includes a very cheerful Clyde Mardon, are quite capable of holding off the worst of the Gotham lot.

Mark Mardon has apparently found his way to New York, too, since technically Len had only kicked him out of Central, but it turns out that Clyde had enough power left over from the escape attempt that he was able to talk with his brother.

In their last call, Lisa said something about them going to some much-needed therapy.

Mick approves.

Len is just not going to touch any of it with a ten-foot pole. 

He has _other_ matters to concern himself with.

Mick’s sent some of the ghosts around to all the regular Santini haunts – then he punched Len for starting to laugh at the terrible pun, but Len can’t help his sense of humor – but unfortunately, it turns out that they’re either much cleverer than they used to be (unlikely) or they really don’t have any designs on Len. No, they’re much more concerned with the usual gamut of Family politics, especially with their currently ongoing succession crisis following the death of some of the older Dons – Don Giovanni got himself shot in a bad deal with the Darbyinians, Don Tomio died of some wasting illness, and Don Cesare and his sons, the most likely candidates for power, had all gotten themselves murdered by Nimbus, leaving a bunch of middle-level men, distaff family lines, and incompetents to fight over power. They didn’t have either time nor interest in trying to kill Len. 

That raised the possibility of someone trying to pin it _on_ the Santinis, of course, but the ghosts reported that none of the other Families seemed all that interested, either, and no one else would bother trying to frame a Family – it’s bad for business, so to speak, since the Families take impersonation quite personally and have a tendency to get back at anyone who tries with excessive violence. 

“What’s the plan for the day?” Len asks Mick as they head into Central City proper, accompanied by Len’s now-usual entourage of ghosts and his equally now-usual supervillain suit, parka and cold gun and all. Discretion is for dummies – or cities a little less accustomed to crime and corruption than Central. “More Santinis?”

“I still think it’s someone from them, you know,” Mick says. “Too many characteristics point to them. But I figure we’ll give them another few weeks before we start pressing on them again.”

“Reasonable,” Len agrees. “What’s on today’s agenda, then?”

“Well, see, I was figuring - there’s a chance it might be someone who works with the Families,” Mick says, scowling at the thought. “A freelancer, like us, but unlike us, someone who’s worked closely enough with the Family over time to know what they’re like, to know how they function.”

“The Families hate copycats,” Len objects. "And any freelancer that works with them would know that."

“Yeah, I was thinking the same,” Mick says. “But the Santinis are all busy with their succession crisis, remember? The same reason we think they don’t have time to deal with us. My thought was, maybe someone else was thinking that the same crisis means that they won’t have time to deal with a copycat and is using it to distract us.”

“Good point,” Len says. He doesn't like the sound of it - it sounds clever - but it's a possibility they have to consider. 

“So I figured we’d go to the city center and push on a few buttons,” Mick continues, expression lightening at the thought of some productive violence. “Some of the law firms have connections with the Families – we could take a look at some of their books, figure out who their major freelancers are.”

Len’s already nodding. “The lawyers would know,” he agrees. “They’re the ones that process the money.”

That’s certainly how Len’s father always got paid when he was working with the Families – if the amount is more than can be safely stuffed into an envelope and passed under the table, then it goes through the lawyers. Len is familiar with the process.

“Got it in one.”

“Good plan,” Len says as they pull up to the financial downtown and get out of the car. He smiles at a group of tourists that immediately snap photos of him in his parka before running away. Yeah, Len’s not going to lie - he's _really_ enjoying this whole supervillain thing. Luckily, the majority of Central City citizens are nowhere near as easily fazed by yet another criminal wandering through and just ignore him. “Say, any word about the speedster fight?”

“Nothing yet,” Mick says. “Team Flash –”

“Tell me they ain’t actually calling themselves that.”

“They’re actually calling themselves that,” Mick confirms, shaking his head. “Anyway, last I heard, they’d manage to capture evil Wells – that’s Eobard Thawne, by the way, that’s why he went after Eddie Thawne –”

“Do I know him?” Len asks.

“Nah, he’s a pig,” Mick says. “Dating Detective West’s daughter.”

“Which is part of Team Flash?”

“Well, _now_ she is – don’t worry, I’ll tell you the whole story later, it’s awful, Nora told me everything –”

“But they’ve caught him?” Len presses. “No big boss fight?”

That seemed oddly anti-climactic.

“Dunno,” Mick says. “Nora’s been unresponsive the last few days – something’s up, I think, something that’s keeping her busy back at STAR Labs. Everyone’s as tense as a piano wire. But I don’t know what it is.” 

“We should probably check in,” Len says. “But not today. Worrying about them is no reason to delay on the important things in life.”

“Like figuring out who’s trying to off you,” Mick says darkly.

“I was thinking a nice smash-and-grab,” Len says dryly, waving to another set of tourists. “But yes, that too.”

“It’s _important_ ,” Mick insists. “The fact that they’ve missed so far –” 

“Is a sign of how incompetent the people who’ve been sent up against me have been.”

“They just need to succeed _once_ , Lenny, and you’re _dead_ ,” Mick says. “Speaking as someone who knows the state a bit better than you, it’d be nice if you’d take this investigation _seriously_.”

“I will, I will,” Len promises, even though he doesn’t really mean it. He gestures around him as they stroll down the sidewalk. “Besides, today's a great day to nose around investigating and finding some actual intel, rather than the red herring leads we’ve been running down so far.”

“See, this is why I don’t believe you,” Mick says, rolling his eyes. “You’re still not taking this seriously.” 

“Oh, come on,” Len complains, smiling. He can’t help it; he’s in a good mood. “Look – beautiful sunny day, barely any clouds in the sky, warm but with a lovely breeze. _Perfect_ for beating people up for information.”

Naturally, the second Len says that, the sky opens up.

Not with rain.

The sky literally _opens up_ , a gaping black maw of darkness just ripping itself free of the sky in a point right above STAR Labs, starting as the smallest pinprick and growing rapidly even as the air and clouds around it begin to furiously swirl into it like an incipient hurricane draining away.

"Holy crap," Len says, staring up as the world above him begins to shake. Detached items are starting to rip their way off tall buildings and drifting upwards _towards_ the sky, flags and loose chairs and vent covers. He can’t feel the pull yet, being on ground level, but he sees people in viewing points on high buildings running back inside their buildings, seeking cover even as their scarves and cameras are yanked violently away from them and towards the darkness. "Is that a _black hole_?"

"What the fuck is a black hole?" Mick asks, staring up at it.

"No, it can’t be, we'd all be dead," Len says, more to himself than to Mick, eyes still firmly fixed upwards. "The time distortion involved would - a black hole's a gravity well. If we can see it with the naked eye, we're close enough to be ripped apart within _seconds_. It's a sci-fi thing."

"Oh, okay," Mick, who prefers superhero comics and ninja movies, says, sounding a bit blank. "I mean, I don't _think_ we're being ripped apart?"

The fact that they’re not being ripped apart is a very small consolation when the blackness in the sky keeps spreading menacingly. 

Worse, even as they talk, the earth around them begins to shake. The tops of buildings are being pulled apart, little by little, but now the force of the black hole is coming further down - things closer to the ground start lifting up, pulled by a stronger gravity than the earth’s into the gaping hole in the sky. 

It’s just little things so far - people’s books and magazines and menus are being ripped out of their hands, their hats off their heads, café umbrellas are lifting up, and it looks like small animals not smart enough to run for cover are going next – soon to be followed by small humans, no doubt. 

"No, but all this ain't much better," Len says grimly. He’s seen enough science fiction films to know that this is not good, and it’s probably only going to get worse. 

He aims his cold gun up, freeze level on, and starts icing roofs over people's heads, hoping to block them from the gravitational pull for a few extra seconds, giving them time to run to safety. 

The people around him are running, panicking, heading inside –

Len sees a small child standing some distance from him in the middle of the street, crying, separated from her parents and starting, ever so slowly, to lift off the ground. He turns the gun towards her, creating a roof above her.

It doesn’t help as much as he’d been hoping, the ice cracking as his roofs shatter in the pull, and now neither of the child’s feet are on the ground.

A young man dashes out of the panicking crowd and grabs her around the waist, pulling her towards him; she stops crying as he runs off with her, so he’s probably a relative or at least someone she knows.

One problem solved.

But the other roofs he’d created aren’t doing any better than the one for the kid, so Len turns off the gun and shoves it back into the thigh holster he’d gotten for it.

Time for _alternative_ means.

"Grab the kids first," he calls to his ghosts, but he finds his voice going echo-y again, and unlike the previous times, this time he feels the strangeness of it. 

He _feels_ it: the swell of power, the _life_ rushing through him and out of him, flowing out to all the ghosts around him - not just the ones he's chosen for his entourage, not just the ones in sight, but _all_ of them. Every ghost he can, everyone he can reach with his power, _everyone_ – blocks and blocks of them, a city neighborhood or two or more. 

The financial district, the nearest housing districts…and the slums, filled with regrets. 

Filled with ghosts. 

"Grab the kids first,” Len orders, his voice echoing, his power flowing through him far stronger than ever before. “They're the lightest. Get them indoors, then go forth and save who you can. Save lives first – worry about property later."

And the ghosts stream forth through the streets of Central City at his command, waves upon waves of them, all of them without discrimination: criminals and businessmen, ladies who lunch and prostitutes, rich men, poor women, lovers, fighters, friendly or not. It doesn’t matter who they were or what they are.

They all heed his call and they _all_ go to do his bidding.

The power is intoxicating. _He_ commands the dead – him, and him alone, and soon his power will grow still more, the teeming masses of the dead at his fingertips, an army that dwarfs that of the largest of nations – and then no one will be able to stand before him or defy his will –

"Lenny?" Mick says, sounding worried. “Lenny, you okay?”

Len crashes back into his body with a sudden start. 

That – _hurts_.

Fuck, he's light-headed like he hasn't been in years, hungry to the point of starvation, his muscles aching like he's been running for hours, and he has the most bizarre feeling he was having a bit of an out-of-body megalomania moment there, which isn’t really like him. 

"Yeah, you definitely overdid it," Mick says, and puts a hand on Len's shoulder, pushing a bit of life back. It doesn't really work that way, the life not really helping Len feel better, but Len appreciates the gesture.

"Didn't mean to," Len says, or at least tries to; he’s gasping for air. His lungs are burning. "Got carried away."

"I could tell," Mick says, crowding closer. He's clearly worried, more about Len than about the still-present black hole growing steadily larger above their heads, but he's still there - there to help Len, to help shoulder the weight of commanding so many ghosts, and not running out there to obey Len's orders like the rest of them.

Len loves Mick so much it hurts, sometimes.

He doesn't know what he'd do without him. 

Die, probably.

"Think I know why my family dies around this age," Len says instead. "It's – different. My power. It’s _been_ different for a while, I just hadn’t entirely noticed it."

"You mean it's gotten harder?"

"No, I mean – it's gotten _easier_. Easier to use, easier to abuse, easier to overdo it. I always thought you died 'cause you ran out of life, but it ain’t that, I think, it’s that you do it to _yourself_..."

"Let's get you inside," Mick says, carefully laying hands on Len, which is how Len knows he's babbling.

Can't seem to stop, either.

He sees lightning out of the corner of his eye, the Flash running around the edges of the black hole, but it doesn't seem to be working. Len has no idea why Barry thinks it would. The fire-guy superhero is helping him. Maybe that'll do it.

Mick always did like fire-guy superhero. They haven’t had a chance to fight him – them? Someone said something about it being a them, he thinks – but that seems like something they might enjoy.

Assuming Len survives his little moment of overdoing it today, that is.

"I think it's gotta do with emotions, maybe?" Len continues. He can’t seem to stop talking, even though he really should. He doesn’t have the breath to spare for it. "I've been pretty happy recently, and I've seen a lot more friendlies. And when I'm upset, it's more unquiets - or even savage friendlies. Dunno. Dunno what killed mom, then, she was only thirty. I'm older than she was – always thought it was dad, y’know, draining her till she didn’t have energy enough to..."

That's when the bullets come, tearing up the earth around them.

Bullets.

Len’d almost forgotten about the assassination attempts, but they hadn't forgotten him.

"No!" Mick yells, twisting himself to put him in front of Len, trying to block them, but he's not faster than a bullet.

Len screams as one digs its way into his leg.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck –" Mick chants, dropping to his knees to grab Len’s leg and start bandaging it up, his broad back between Len and any more bullets, should they come. Mick always carries a first aid kit with him these days. "Get a ghost – you need them to call the hospital – get an ambulance –"

"Can't," Len moans. He doesn’t remember falling, but he’s on the ground. Mick is shielding him. The bullets have stopped, despite the fact that they’re still out in the open – someone must have fired and then immediately ran off, just like all the other times before.

“You get a ghost _right now_ , Len, or so help me –”

“I _can’t_.”

"What?!"

"No ghosts – don't – I don't got the juice, Mick – you saw me, I nearly killed myself sending them out and away – you're the only one left – " Len can feel them, all of them, all the ghosts out there still doing his bidding all over the city, saving men and women and children and pets, getting them indoors where they could hide from the black hole. He can _feel_ them. 

Mick's eyes are wild. "I'm getting you inside," he says, and scoops Len up, carrying him to the nearest building and kicking the door open.

"It's not so bad," Len pants. He's lying and Mick knows it. Leg's not a great place for a bullet, insofar as anything ever is. Not the worst place, but not great.

"You're not gonna die," Mick says. "You're _not_."

"We're all gonna die, Mick," Len says, his head falling back. "Nothing's gonna stop that black hole. We're all gonna be ripped apart."

He's tired.

He's so tired.

"Len! _Len_! Damnit, it's not your time!"

"Think my name was in the wrong book this year, Mick," Len says. He's so tired, his leg hurts, and he's just spent his reserves. He feels Mick lay him down somewhere: they must be inside, now.

"Pull some _back_ , damnit!"

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?!"

"Won't," Len sighs. "Not till the black hole's gone...s'my _city_ , Mick...love it...n’ you too..."

He distantly hears Mick scream in rage as his head tips over.

Mick's hands disappear from his.

He doesn't know why, he just knows he's fading –

Someone waves something that smells _awful_ under his nose.

Len blinks back awake, gagging in horror.

It's some middle-aged woman, crouching next to him; half a dozen other people, men and women and kids, also there.

"What?" he says groggily.

"Smelling salts," she says.

"Really?"

She grins shakily. "Well, no, it’s just some _really_ bad perfume, but I figured it'd work. We don’t have any actual smelling salts; this is only a convenience store. Bobby's mixing up some electrolytes for you. Gatorade and extra salt. I heard people who are hurt shouldn't fall asleep."

"You know nothing of first aid except what you've seen on TV," Len guesses.

"I watch a lot of hospital dramas," she says, shrugging, but Len doesn’t really care; a guy – Bobby, he presumes – brings him the Gatorade and he takes a few gulps; it does seem to help. He also swallows a few pain pills they offer, nothing serious, and even though he knows it’s just the placebo effect, he starts feeling better almost immediately.

"Great,” he finally says to her. “What's – where's Mick? What’s happening?"

"The guy who was with you? He ran outside just now."

"Outside?"

After a bit of frantic gesturing, Len gets helped over to the window.

Mick is – not Mick.

Len doesn’t know if people can see what he sees, because that doesn’t look a _thing_ like Mick, what’s out there.

What Len usually calls Mick is floating a meter above the earth, his eyes blazing crackling white light, teeth bared in savage fury, his form stretched out to superhuman size, pulled like taffy and flimsy like a translucent sheet fraying apart at the ends, buffeted by clouds, his still-visible hands stretched out to the black hole is if he can will it together by strength alone – 

And the thing is, he _can_. 

The city itself is shaking, being torn up by the strength of the gravitational pull, but things are suddenly pulling back _down_ to the earth, flinging themselves down back into place with vehemence, hurtling downwards like they’re being thrown by invisible hands –

_Poltergeist._

That’s what this is.

Lisa’s described what they look like to regular people at that stage, and that’s what Len’s seeing now: a poltergeist in full fury, matching the will and strength of the angry dead against the forces of nature. And it isn’t just any poltergeist, either; it’s _Mick_ , pouring out all the years and years of life and love that Len’s given him in a gout of raw emotion, roaring against the thing destroying them all, and, God above, it’s actually working. 

The black hole itself is shrieking and shrinking and _closing_ , nature itself flinching back at the sheer force of Mick’s rage.

The Flash has started up his spinning run again, pushing against the edges of the hole, spinning it shut, shouting encouragement that Len can’t hear the words of from his position inside the store. The ghosts swarm up at Mick’s command, helping him, helping the Flash, pulling and tugging at the edges of the black hole, bringing it close until the darkness is no larger than a field – a yard – a house – 

And then, just as they’re struggling with it, the darkness lashing out at the dead in return, the man on fire, the flaming superhero, shoots up to the very center of the black hole and splits apart, separating into two people with a blast of immense power, and Len’s ghosts catch them both on the way down – the way _down_ , that last effort cutting off the black hole entirely, the whole thing collapsing in on itself until it’s nothing more than a fading pinprick in the air.

Ghosts catch the Flash, too, pulling him down and dropping him gently on the earth.

Mick’s still raging, though, and Len can see clouds coming from the horizon, summoned the way he summoned ghosts, and the ground is still shaking with the unsuppressed rage of a poltergeist with the target of its rage gone missing. 

A very, _very_ powerful poltergeist. 

“I need to go to the hospital,” Len says.

“ _Now_?” the guy, Bobby, asks. “No offense, but uh, not sure if you’ve somehow gone blind and missed this, but ghost-man out there is still ripping shit up.”

“He just closed the black hole,” Len says. “You’ve got nothing to fear. Now get me to a hospital. _Stat_. As publicly as possible, too; he needs to know that I’m all right.”

“There’s an ambulance not far out back,” a kid – teenager, really – says hesitantly. “But I think the guys who drive it aren’t there anymore?”

“That gonna be a problem?”

“Nah, I do some auto repair; I can swing it.”

“Good kid.”

Len gets carted out, arms slung over his helpful new friends, and he shouts, “Mick!” as he’s being helped into the ambulance.

Mick turns – his eyes are still blazing white fire, the pupil entirely gone, the lower half of his face not entirely there – and this time Len gets to see _Mick_ crash back into his own body, forgetting everything except the need to rush over to Len’s side. He goes back to looking normal, too, which is probably all for the best for everyone involved.

“Shit, Lenny, you okay?”

“Going to the hospital,” Len says.

“Good,” Mick says, then adds, “Won’t they arrest you?” 

“Somehow,” Len says dryly, glancing around the mess around them, all ripped up streets blown over like a hurricane’s just gone by, “I think they’ll be too busy. Good job on the black hole.”

“On the…oh.” Mick flushes red. “I didn’t mean to do that, exactly.”

Len rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand to Mick. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Oops. _Whatever_. There’s stuff I didn’t mean to do, neither. Get over here.”

Mick comes closer, though he doesn’t take Len’s hand. “Are you sure you have enough life to –”

“Mick,” Len says firmly. “Gimme my goddamn husband’s hand, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

Mick laughs a little shakily and climbs into the back of the ambulance with Len, his fingers woven through Len’s.

“Are you a real ghost or some sort of ghost meta-human?” the middle-aged woman, who’s also come along, asks curiously.

“Real ghost,” Mick replies.

“Got it,” she says, clearly deciding that it’s not the weirdest thing she’s seen today. “Good save.”

“Definitely,” the teenager who’d been propping up Len’s other side and who’d gone around to start the ambulance says from the front seat. “Very cool.”

“Thanks, uh…”

“Joan Williams,” she says.

“Jax,” the teenager offers. “Jefferson Jackson, really, but everyone calls me Jax.”

“I like you two,” Len says, letting his head fall down on the pillow on the ambulance cart. “You handle surprises well.”

They both grin. “Well, Central City,” Joan says, as if it explains everything, and it really does.

“ _Central City_ ,” Mick mutters, rolling his eyes. “Only here. Jax, you said? Good job on that hotwiring.”

“I work in a not-entirely-legal autoshop; s’practically the first thing they taught me.”

“Huh, really? Which one?”

“Ed’s.”

“Milligan Avenue?”

“That’s the one.”

“Not bad,” Mick says. “You do any _work_ , or just auto shop stuff?” 

“Just shop stuff,” Jax replies. “My mom’d kill me dead if I even _thought_ about breaking the law.”

“Pity.”

“Mick, stop recruiting,” Len says. The pain in his leg is starting to be really painful. His brain is also clearly starting to not work. The placebo effect from the aspirin he took earlier is _definitely_ starting to wear off. “I’m not starting a supervillain team-up gang.”

“I’d be a pretty shit supervillain anyway, between the mom and the torn ACL,” Jax says, though he sounds a bit regretful about it.

“I just got shot in the knee,” Len says to the ceiling of the ambulance. “Isn’t that from a video game?”

“That’s an arrow, dear,” Joan says.

“Maybe I can talk to your mom,” Mick says to Jax. “See if there’s some type of supervillainy she might approve of. She like the environment? Or whales?”

“Well, yeah, but, like, no more than most people, I think?”

“Damn. Well, I’ll think of something.”

“When you say ‘talk’, you mean _talk_ , right? Not intimidating?”

“I look like the type of person who’d –”

“Yes,” Jax says dryly.

“You did just turn into a ghost-monster and nearly tear apart the city, dear,” Joan says, patting Mick’s arm.

“Damn,” Mick says. “Well, I’ll try to be nice. Len, you okay?”

“Amused at your antics, which I suspect is the point of ‘em.”

“ _Pain-wise_ , Len.”

“The endorphins have hit,” Len reports. “Also the pain. Hospital would be nice. Or drugs. I’ll settle for drugs. But not bad drugs.”

“Your brain is fried,” Mick translates.

“Pulling up at the hospital now,” Jax says.

Len lets himself get wheeled out and nearly cries when they give him some real painkillers. _Finally_.

“Hey, Mick,” he says, tugging at his IV.

“Don’t you _dare_ say it.”

Len snickers.

“Don’t suppose you got the number of the bus that hit me?” he asks, lying back down at the encouragement of some very nice doctors. He knows they’re very nice, they just gave him painkillers. Very nice of them.

“No, since you sent all the ghosts out people-saving,” Mick says, making a face as he easily keeps pace alongside the cart that they're pushing him down the hall in. “And I needed to take care of you.”

“Me, and the city; that’s pretty important,” Len allows. “I’ll let it go this time. Also, I will give you that we really need to do something about this whole attempted murder thing.”

“Not murder, this time. I think they were shooting to subdue,” Mick says, slouching back in his chair. “You were out in the open, standing still, gibbering –”

“I was not _gibbering_.”

“You really were.”

“Blabbering, maybe. Rambling. Maybe yammering. Not _gibbering_.”

“Len.”

“Okay, fine. I take your point. I was out in the open, they had a good shot, they didn’t take it. They wouldn’t have hit my leg the way they did if they weren’t aiming to disable, not kill.”

“Right in the meat of it,” Mick says, nodding. “Hurts like hell, but you’ll be up on your feet again soon enough."

He glares at a doctor, who nods. 

"Anyway, fact is, though, you coulda died because you were so low on life already – but they wouldn’t have known that.”

“Yeah,” Len says, letting his head fall back down on the pillow. Just a leg shot, not a bad one, but when he’s that short of life as is…he doesn’t want to end up like his mother, choking to death on the floor. 

“You gonna take me seriously about the Santini thing _now_?” Mick asks.

“Oh, all _right_. I’ll be serious about it.”

“Good.”

“Say, you end up getting anywhere with that Jax kid?”

“I’m having coffee with his mom tomorrow,” Mick says. 

“…what, really?”

“He’s a good driver who knows how to hotwire an ambulance,” Mick replies with a shrug. 

“Doesn’t seem very supervillainy.”

“Neither do _temperature-themed puns_.”

“That’s _classic_ supervillain, I’ll have you know. Larger than life.”

“Listen, boss, we’re not limiting our recruitment to people who can, I don’t know, literally light shit on fire, okay ?”

“Fine,” Len concedes.

Then – “Wait. Since when are we _recruiting_?”


	13. 12

“It’s not _just like wrestling_ ,” Len objects. “It’s not fake. We steal real stuff.”

“Sometimes,” Barry says, rolling his eyes at him. “Not _always_.”

“Well, sometimes we let Barry here win,” Len allows. “To make him feel better.”

“You mean sometimes I _kick your ass_ because I’m _awesome_ ,” Barry replies.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I wanted to beat you, I would.”

“Oh, you want to bring it, huh? Well –”

“Not during dinner you don’t,” Mick says, dropping off the roast in the center of the table.

“That looks marvelous,” Jenna – she’d insisted that she preferred it to Mrs. Jackson – says approvingly. “Thank you, Mick.”

“My pleasure,” he says, though his cheeks do flush a bit. He’s still not used to anyone whose last name isn’t Snart complimenting him.

Nora pats Mick on the arm. “I can’t wait to try it,” she says with a smile. “This will be my first meal in fifteen years; I’m very excited.”

“I’m never gonna get used to the ghost thing,” Jax says, shaking his head.

“Sorry I couldn’t find your dad,” Len apologizes, not for the first time. Jax waves a hand, signaling forgiveness. 

“If it means he’s gone on where he’s supposed to be, that’s fine with me,” Jenna says firmly. “Don’t worry about it, Leonard. Now enough about wrestling - which isn't fake, dear, it's just scripted - tell me more about your little supervillain group.”

“Well, right now it’s mostly just me, Mick and Lisa – that’s my sister, she’s back at school at the moment –”

“Oh? What does she study?”

“Mechanical engineering,” Len says proudly. “Bachelors at CCU; but now she’s at Columbia for her masters.”

“Really?” Jax asks, perking up. “If I get into college, I’d been thinking of going into engineering –”

“Wouldn’t be any trouble to set the two of them up to talk,” Mick assures Jenna, who nods thoughtfully. “Give him a preview of what it’s like, introduce him to some of the CCU teachers – admissions people –”

“That’s very useful when applying for scholarships,” Nora notes. “I, sadly, was already deceased when Barry was going over his applications, but I did peek in when I could.”

Barry’s nodding along. “It’s all about getting your name to be the one that leaps out of the group for admissions,” he says with the tone of wisdom that comes from being the person in the room most recently familiar with the college experience. Not to mention quite possibly the only living one. “Actually, getting back on subject, the supervillain thing will help with that.”

“Right, the ‘supervillain thing’,” Jenna says. “Remind me again, what’s your group called?”

“We’re going with ‘the Rogues’ for now, ma’am,” Mick says. He tends to lapse into formalities when he’s hoping to impress someone. “Barry’s suggestion. Gives us room to create our own identities, while keeping an overall theme.”

“Plus it reminds people a sort of comic-book ‘Rogues Gallery’,” Barry adds. “Makes people think of the hero, which in turn makes them more comfortable.”

“I see,” she says, holding out her plate for Mick to pile on a steaming slice of roast beef and a copious helping of vegetables. 

“Even Cisco – uh, he’s my friend, he gives all the supervillains names – even he thinks it’s a cool name,” Barry offers. “Cisco’s on what we call ‘Team Flash’ –”

“Terrible name.”

“Quiet, Len. Anyway, Team Flash is me and Cisco and Caitlin –”

“Cisco and Caitlin and I,” Nora murmurs.

“Cisco does our technology,” Barry bravely forges on. “Caitlin’s our doctor and she’s great –”

“Great enough, as long as she stops bugging me for more forensic tests she’d like to run on either me or the ghosts,” Len grumbles. “I’ve had enough tests to last me a lifetime ever since Barry _told them about it_.”

“It was an accident! I was just trying to convince them I wasn’t crazy for talking to Mom!”

“Have you considered _discretion_?”

“Are Caitlin’s tests worse or better than Cisco trying to change your name to Captain Chillbones?” Mick interjects, looking far too amused about it all. He was quite fond of the tests, especially anything that could be converted from use in monitoring epilepsy to monitoring whatever you'd classify Len's family curse as, but then again, he would be. As he often puts it, he has a vested interest in Len's ongoing health. 

“ _Captain Cold_ is just fine, thanks,” Len sniffs. _Chillbones_. Really. 

Jenna laughs. “Indeed,” she says. “If they renamed you, they’d have to rebrand all the toys.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“So, Barry,” she asks, turning to Barry. “Why is it that you – you’re the hero, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why do you support this Rogues group, if they’re stealing things and breaking the law? It seems contrary to your, ah, heroic mission statement.”

“That’s where the wrestling comparison comes in,” Barry says, brightening. He thought of the comparison last week and won’t stop using it – Len hates it, but Barry thinks it's great. “See, Central City’s been applying for quite a lot of government and charitable funds for money to help fix the city infrastructure that was damaged during the big blow-out back in May – the black hole –”

“I remember.”

“Right. Anyway, there’s all sorts of resources pouring in – state, federal, private charities, that sort of thing. We’ve gotten a lot of donations already and they’re going to build back up a lot of parts of the city, but there’s a lot of the city that’s being overlooked because, well –”

“The slums,” Len clarifies. “No one ever cares about the slums.”

“Unless, of course, they happen to be the only thing you see on national television,” Mick says with the tone of someone who still thinks television was the twentieth century’s greatest invention. “The number one media draw both in Central City and nationally nowadays are fights between the Flash and the Rogues – even bigger than just the Flash by himself, because people got a bit tired of that –”

“I did a lot of media talks right after the black hole, trying to raise money to fix the city,” Barry explains, ducking his head a little. 

“So, nowadays, you wanna get national media in, you’ve got to have both sides,” Mick continues. “Nice big supervillain showdown. Now, Len here – he’s our planner – he’s agreed that we’ll aim our heists either in the slums proper or nearby _to_ the slums, where we’ll move our fight immediately afterwards, so that the only backdrop the media’s gonna get is going to be slum city.”

“I think I understand,” she says, nodding. "If the only thing that the media sees when they look at Central are slums…well. Nothing incentivizes City Hall like shame."

“Not shame,” Len corrects. “They’re politicians. They’re motivated by power and money.”

"Exactly," Barry says, beaming. "It's very hard for them to run their tourist campaigns –"

"Especially tourist campaigns based on superheroes and supervillains," Jax adds.

"—when the slums look quite so bad. So they'll have no choice but to put some money into improving the area."

"Aren't you worried about gentrification driving the slums out once they look prettier?"

"Gentrifiers won’t touch the place, not as long as the crime rate's so high, which gives people a chance to put down roots and protective associations," Len says. "And there’s no chance of the crime rate going down until we get rid of the Families.” He takes a bite and chews for a moment, swallows, then says, “That’s the next project.”

"You're thinking of going up against the _Families_?"

"Not anytime soon," Len says firmly. "And Jax will be well clear of it before we do anything that foolish, I promise you that."

"Right now, the Families respect Len and me as freelancers," Mick says. "We don't bother them, they don't bother us sort of deal."

"Reasonable. But still – you are breaking the law, correct? The Rogues, I mean?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mick says. "We try to, and Barry here tries to stop us."

Jenna nods thoughtfully.

"This is delicious," Nora says. She's been mostly occupied eating, but in fairness it is her first meal in quite a while. 

"It really is," Jenna says. "Thank you again, Mick."

"My pleasure."

"Pass the rolls?" Barry asks Jax, who obliges. Taking a roll and biting into it, Barry continues, "Anyway, as I was saying –" 

"Barry! Not with your mouth full!" Nora says.

"Sorry, Mom."

Nora shakes her head and shares an amused look with Jenna.

Barry swallows. "Anyway," he says. "You don't need to worry about Jax’s physical safety. I'll be very careful with Jax."

"I'll be careful with you, too," Jax shoots back, smirking a little.

"I'm still not sure," Jenna says. "The entire point of this is to raise money for Jax's college tuition –"

"He gets a cut from our takes," Len says, nodding. "The legitimate part, don't worry; if there's one thing Central City accountants know how to do, it's how to wash money."

"He'd know," Mick says dryly. "He actually likes accounting."

"Just as a hobby!"

"You're so _weird_ ," Barry tells Len admiringly.

Len ignores him. Accounting isn't weird. _Lots_ of people do accounting. 

"My concern," Jenna says, drawing their attention again, "is that tuition or no tuition, it won't do no good if Jax gets himself arrested for breaking the law. That seems like it would put a damper on his prospects of getting into college, rather than boosting them."

"Oh, that won't be a problem, ma'am," Barry says. "I'm happy to speed him away from the crime scene if it looks likely that the Rogues will be captured – pretty unlikely, given how Captain Singh was talking just the other day about the Rogues’ use as a publicity machine –"

"Captain Singh?"

"Chief of CCPD, ma'am."

"I'm certain he knows Barry's the Flash," Nora tells Jenna. "Never says anything, of course, but he does leave hints sometimes..."

"So you see, the whole thing's got buy in at high levels," Jax says earnestly. Len tries to suppress a smile at the clever use of buzzwords and puppy eyes. 

"I see," Jenna says, totally not snookered by it in the slightest. "And what if Barry can't get Jax away in time?"

"Then my ghosts will," Len says firmly. "We'll make it highest priority."

"Your ghosts," Jenna says. "Right. I must admit, that's still something of a strange idea to me."

Len shrugs, conceding the point. He supposes it is kind of strange if you didn't grow up with it.

"Why couldn't you use ghosts for bad guys instead?" Jenna asks, tapping a finger against her lip. "Instead of going yourself as ‘the Rogues’, I mean. I remember right after the black hole, when all the ghosts came streaming out everywhere, the media was going bananas looking for hide or hair of them. Uh, metaphorically speaking."

Len makes a face. "Unfortunately not the best idea," he says. "Do you remember the crime wave we had right after the black hole? Lots of unsolved crime?"

"Yes?"

"Those were ghosts," Nora says. "They're not all as nice as Mick or myself."

"I'm not nice," Mick grumbles. "More spinach, Jenna?"

"Please, thank you."

"Not nice, he says," Barry stage-whispers to Jax.

"Once I give ghosts power, they have freedom to do was they like with it," Len says, getting back on the subject. "I mean, if I'm bossing them around all the time, sometimes they’ll agree to do what I say, but not always, and I ain’t the sort that’ll force ‘em against their will. Either way, not only is it a drain on my personal resources, it's risky. This way, I have more control over who does what – and besides, it's more fun."

" _Lots_ of fun," Jax says. "C'mon, mom, please? It's hardly more illegal than half the auto shops in the city."

"Don't remind me," Jenna says with a sigh. 

"And afterwards, I'd be happy to write a recommendation letter or whatever," Barry says. "Whatever will help."

"C'mon, _Mom_ ," Jax says, widening his eyes.

"You committed to finishing up that summer work at the auto shop," Jenna says. "That takes you all day -"

"I can do that first!" Jax says quickly. "It's only another few weeks or so. I can start up with the Rogues after that - that is, if you agree."

Jenna frowns for a moment, but then looks around at all of them. Each and every one of them is staring at her with a hopeful expression. "Oh, all right! You can join the Rogues, Jax."

They all cheer. Barry and Jax high-five.

"But I want to see a full face mask like Mr. Allen here, young man," Jenna says to her son. "No getting your name in the papers, nothing like that."

"Will do, mom! Thanks!"

Jenna shakes her head in amusement at their glee. "Though, it occurs to me, might I ask why you're all pitching that he work with the villain group?" she asks. "Wouldn't being Barry's, I don't know, sidekick or something work better?"

"He couldn't keep up with me," Barry says, smirking. Then his smirk fades. "Besides, I think it's better that he be on the villain side. It's safer."

"Safer?" Jenna asks. 

"Villains aren't a target," Barry says, sighing. "Eobard wouldn't have come after me if I was a villain."

"Eobard?"

"Oh, lord," Nora says. "You don't want to hear about that."

"Yes, we do," Jax says immediately. “Tell us.”

"Well, it all started in the future – really, like a few hundred years in the future – "

Len shakes his head – he’s heard this story before – and helps Mick collect the plates and take them back to the kitchen. His leg’s doing much better; he barely limps at all, now, and that means he’s back on the roster for doing chores.

He’d _prefer_ to use the ghosts for that, but Mick puts on a long-suffering face and talks about how abuses of power always start with the little things, as if he doesn’t freaking poltergeist the dishes into the sink at least half the time when it’s his turn. But compromise is important, so Len’s given in and does it himself.

At least when they have company over.

By the time they’ve finished clearing the table – not an easy task, given Barry’s appetite – and returned, Barry’s gotten the story all the way to the black hole itself.

“– so that’s when Eobard realizes that Eddie’s going to shoot himself –”

“Eddie’s the other Thawne, right? The cop?”

“Yeah, he’s Eobard’s ancestor. Anyway, so Eobard dashes over to stop him and, like, _wrenches_ the gun out of his hand, he’s all, ‘as noble a sacrifice as that is, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that; you’re essential to my timeline’ and then he turns to Iris and says, ‘but your girlfriend isn’t’ –”

“Shit! What then?” Jax asks.

“Language, Jefferson,” Jenna says absently, but her eyes are also fixed intently on Barry. “Go on, Barry.”

“And I’m yelling and trying to get to them and Eddie’s screaming and Eobard goes straight for Iris and then – _bam_! Mom appears right in front of Iris and Eobard just stops _dead_ , staring at her - and you can see from his face that he recognizes her, too - and then she says, ‘ _Everyone’s_ essential’ and _stabs him_.”

“Nice!”

“Well done,” Jenna tells Nora approvingly. Nora blushes and smiles. 

“Anyway, after that _epic_ piece of poetic justice, we thought it was over, and that’s when the black hole opened up. We think it’s because he died in the Accelerator and the particles in the Accelerator reacted badly to weird stuff like a guy from the future dying now.”

“Wow.”

“And the ghost on fire that fought the black hole…?” Jenna asks interestedly. "Not Firestorm, the other one."

“That – was actually Mick,” Barry admits.

Mick coughs. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Len’d just gotten shot and wouldn’t go to a hospital while there were kids potentially being sucked up in there.”

“No, no,” Jenna says. “Don’t get me wrong; you saved my niece.”

“And Ronnie,” Barry adds. “He was thinking of sacrificing himself, too – why does everyone think first about sacrificing themselves?”

“You lead by example, dear,” Nora says.

“Mom!”

“It’s true. You have a guilt complex that would make a psychologist start giggling with joy.”

“Mo- _om_!”

“I blame Joe West, I think,” Nora says. “Certainly you didn’t have one when _I_ was alive.”

“So long story short,” Len interjects before dinner becomes yet another episode of the Nora-and-Barry-adorable-family-time show, cute as it is, “we’d like to keep some distance between the Rogues and Barry’s hero squad to keep us safe from any villain aiming to hurt Barry. We also want to make sure that any enterprising would-be supervillain that comes to town gets stopped by Barry here – and if he can’t do it, we can.”

“But I thought _you_ were the supervillains?” Jenna asks. “How does that work, if you’re stopping other supervillains?”

“We’re supervillains, yes, but we’re very _territorial_ ones,” Len replies, and smiles his best charming smile. “It’s a good cover.”

He’s cleaning the story up a bit, of course. He’s still fully committed to his career as a thief, even though he’s taking significantly more care not to get caught – getting Barry to wipe out his and Lisa’s criminal records is really a one-shot sort of favor – but there’s no need to go into Len’s rather nasty history of criminality with Jenna, especially since he has no intention of involving Jax in any of the serious stuff.

On the same token, there's no need to touch on the fact that they _still_ haven’t figured out who’s trying to hunt Len down.

They’ve continued their investigation, albeit a bit more slowly because of Len’s slowly healing leg, but nothing much has come of it. The freelancers on the payroll seem to be all the usual ones, and the few that seemed to have potential turned out to be dead ends.

Mick’s been getting really frustrated. 

He still thinks it’s the Santinis, but the current batch of Santinis is basically out as a potential target. They’d started with all the Dons with any authority left over, which wasn’t exactly much, and while Len was confined to doing physical therapy, Mick had flipped a bit and gone after the rest of them.

And when Len says ‘the rest of them’, he really means _the rest of them_.

Sometimes it seems to Len that Mick shook down every single Santini in the entire city. 

He’s talking everyone from Don Cesare’s sickly brother Leopold Santini, the only survivor of the Nimbus massacre and now desperately trying to protect his family branch’s interest in the drug trade from incursion when he wasn’t too busy having another attack of pneumonia, to Eugenia Santini, the strong-willed but somewhat ditzy daughter of Don Giovanni and his army of enforcers, who could barely remember how many thugs she had on hand at any given time, to Don Nicholas Santini, a small fish who nominally helped out running the Santini’s brothel and casino trades but spent most of his time getting high with out-of-town high-rolling guests, a useless, twitchy, scared, spoiled rich kid relying less on his own abilities and more on the fact that he’s one of the grandsons of Don Tomio Santini, a guy that Len remembers mostly as the one whose kids smashed a bottle into his head when he was younger. 

Len vaguely remembers Mick beating him and his goons up once for going after Len over some money or something, honestly.

What a pathetic lot. 

And these, sad to say, are the rising stars of the Santini Family now that the old guard is gone. Don’t get Len wrong – he’s delighted to see the decline of the Families – but every last one of these is an example of everything that’s gone wrong with that Family. 

And every single one of them sang like a bird when Mick came to visit, and none of them sang about anything interesting, the whole lot of them denying any reason that they had to go after Len personally.

And with this many attempts, it was clearly something personal. 

The sad fact of it is that even the nobodies like Nicholas don’t have a clue as to why someone is trying to go after Len – and that, more annoyingly, means that neither does anyone else.

There’s nothing to do but wait for the next attempt on Len’s life – or maybe on his legs – and hope that this time, they find out who’s behind it.

Nothing to do but wait.

Len _hates_ waiting.


	14. 13

Mick has been driving himself spare trying to investigate the attempts to kill Len of the past few months, and it’s starting to show in the way he broods over the topic any time there’s a moment to do so.

"At least whoever’s behind it haven't made any new tries recently," Len offers on the drive home from STAR Labs, where they’d dropped Jax off for a day of what Team Flash called ‘orientation’ and Len called ‘Caitlin running baseline tests while Cisco shows off their cool villain archives and tries to think of a decent villain name while Barry is at work’. Jax finally managed to finish the extended summer hours he promised to put in at the autoshop this week, so he’s ready to start getting involved in the Rogues at last. Besides, the delay meant that Len’s leg is fully healed by now. "The last one was all the way back on Black Hole Day. That’s something, ain’t it?"

"People don't order assassins – "

"Amateur assassins at _best_ – "

"People don't order _any type_ of assassins and then _stop_ , Len," Mick replies. "There's something we're missing."

"I'm sure," Len says. "But we’ve been over it half a dozen times. I don’t know what else you think we can _do_.”

“If we sent out the ghosts –”

“To do what?” Len asks practically. “The ghosts are useful, but only to a certain degree, and only when they’re given orders. You know most of them aren’t stable enough to focus on a serious search like this.”

“I know, I know. S’why I’ve only been using the good ones. But –”

“Mick. If there was something I could think of, some angle, I would. But I don’t know why they started, and I don’t know why they stopped, either – and I don’t know why they shifted over to wanting me alive, either.”

“Assuming they didn’t always,” Mick grumbles. “Goddamn amateurs. I went back and double-checked, by the way – they were using Santini guns and bullets, every single time. Even that usher in the theater; I checked the bullet casings and there’s no doubt.”

“So we're back to thinking it was a frame-up job?”

“Guess it has to be. Why someone intent on framing a _Family_ would only hire amateurs, though, I don’t know.”

“Maybe the goal is to have us go up against the Santinis, cause them trouble?”

“Nah. Even the Santinis have been answering our questions since we explained the whole hired killer thing; the Dons seem to be taking it as a personal insult that someone’s been handing out their guns.”

“Of course that’s what they care about,” Len says, shaking his head. From his perspective, he’s worried about the issue enough; there's nothing good ruminating on it further would do. They just have to wait for the next attempt, and that's that. “Anyway, to change the subject, I was thinking, for the Rogues, might be worth it to have a good getaway man."

"Thought that's why we had Jax?"

"He's only one guy, and you don't let me drive anymore," Len reminds Mick.

Mick shrugs. "If the unquiet dead attack you one more time while you’re behind the wheel, you'll lose your license for epilepsy anyway. I'm just preempting it."

"My license is _fake_ , Mick."

"Consider me your DMV, then. How many people in your family history do you want to bet died of falling off their horses, huh?"

" _Horses_ – "

"Don't knock horses. Horses are scary."

“Mick. Why are we talking about horses?” Len asks, because honestly he has no idea when that happened. It’s not that he disagrees – there was an incident when he was younger, when Lisa got it in her head that she wanted to go horseback riding and they’d been scared off by the sheer size of the beasts – but seriously, _how had the horses entered the conversation?_

“Because you won’t tell me the real reason you want to recruit someone new.”

Len groans. "I want someone else on the Rogues that's closer to Jax's age. You happy now?"

"See, _that's_ a good reason. Who were you thinking?"

"Webber. He could use the money, and he's a speed demon."

Mick hums thoughtfully, then turns on the wrong exit to go home, but the right exit to take them over to Keystone – and the drag racing tracks.

"I'll take that as a yes," Len says, satisfied.

They find Webber counting up his cash at the end of a race, no car in sight, and looking anxious, which isn't an uncommon sight these days.

"Hey, WWW," Len says, leaning out of the car window. "How's the mom?"

Webber looks up, with a wry smile. "Still sick," he says. "But better. Not so much nausea anymore. Tell me you've got a won't-go-wrong job that needs a driver."

"Better," Len says. "How do you feel about trying to out-race a speedster through skill alone?"

Webber's eyes all but glow with excitement. "I can't afford to get arrested for it," he warns, because he sometimes remembers to be level-headed. "And I need money, not just speed."

"Cut of our profits or a flat fee each time, whatever's bigger," Len says. "You wear a mask, and the Flash has promised to make sure you don't get tossed in the clink if you obey a certain set of rules – no killing people, best efforts to hurt anyone, pick the targets carefully, that sort of thing. I run the show and you listen to me."

"The _Flash_ promises? Man, I don't know what con you're running, but I want _in_."

"Adrenaline hog," Len says fondly. It takes one to know one. "Hop in, we'll give you a lift since you lost your keys."

"That obvious, huh? Jonesy’s crew won my ride, but I'm gonna buy it back."

"Wait till tomorrow," Mick advises. "He'll think you're not as desperate and drop the price a bit to make sure you buy it."

Webber climbs into the car. "True," he says. "But without you guys, I wouldn't have a way home otherwise, so I _was_ desperate. Anyway, doesn’t matter now. Tell me about your newest scam."

"It's not a scam," Len objects. "It's – media managing, s'all. The real game goes on."

Webber arches his eyebrows.

"The way it works is this – "

It turns out that Jax has finished Team Flash orientation and is waiting for them back at what they’re currently using as the Rogues safehouse, which makes everything easier.

"Jax, meet Webber," Len says. "You'll be our go-to car guys, so bond. Learn each other's tricks. I want a well-oiled machine out of the two of you. Proper pumping engine."

"He knows literally _nothing_ about cars," Webber tells Jax.

"No kidding," Jax says with a snort. "He doesn't even drive."

"I drive!" Len protests.

"Barely," both young men chorus, then smile at each other.

Len rolls his eyes. "I'm conceding the point only to encourage team morale."

"Wait, that works?" Mick asks. "I've got some other points for you to concede on – it'd certainly raise _my_ morale – "

" _No_."

"My name's Jefferson Jackson," Jax tells Webber, ignoring Mick and Len. "Everyone calls me Jax."

"I think I remember you," Webber says. "Football QB for Bradley High, right? You kicked the Bobcats' ass up and down the field."

"You were a _Bobcat_?"

"Not on the team, but the school, yeah. I'll just apologize in advance."

"Nah, man, I'll apologize to you. That's the rowdiest school in the whole district – unless you count Holy Angels, and – "

"— no one ever counts Holy Angels," they conclude in unison with identical smirks.

Len shares bewildered glances with Mick. High school drama is something Len will never get. Real sports, even college ball, sure, but _high school_?

Webber sticks out a hand. "Wally West," he says. Jax shakes his hand, smiling.

"Webber, your real name is Wall-E?" Len says dubiously. "Like the robot movie?"

" _No_ , you _dweeb_ of a supervillain," Webber says, rolling his eyes. "As in, short for Wallace."

"Why do they call you Webber?" Jax asks.

"It's one of my racing handles in Keystone," Webber says, shaking his head. "See, my full name's actually Wallace Wickham West..."

"It _is_?" Len says, not without some real horror. "And here I thought _Snart_ was bad."

"Snart _is_ bad," Mick says, pulling out a beer from the fridge.

"I get it," Jax says, laughing. "World Wide Web, huh? WWW?"

"And from that, Webber," Webber says. "Either that or Wally’s fine. What brings you to these crazy bastards?"

"College tuition. You?"

"Mom's medical bills. I'm still hoping to scholarship my way into college."

"Tough road, man. Sorry about your mom. It bad?"

"Yeah, cancer."

"Shit. Let me tell my mom, she'll probably want to drop off a casserole. Or ten."

Webber cracks another grin. "Yeah, my mom used to do that, I know exactly what you mean. Yeah. That'd be good. A bunch of mom's friends ditched when she started getting really sick, and my dad’s not in the picture. She could use some company."

"I'll tell my mom tonight," Jax promises.

"And when you're done with that," Len says, "maybe you could go try out the cars out back and see if you think they need to be tuned up for the heist we're pulling on Friday."

"Friday? Short notice."

"Need to get the Rogues plan into action," Len says firmly. “No reason for delay.”

"Also, he's invited the Flash and Co. over for a potluck on Saturday to celebrate our new supervillain-superhero alliance and just realized how much money feeding a speedster's gonna cost," Mick says dryly. "Well. _I_ realized, since I'm gonna be doing the feeding."

"I can't wait to actually meet the Flash," Jax says, bouncing a little, Webber nodding along.

"He's just a nerd in a red costume," Len warns them, but that doesn't seem to dim their enthusiasm one bit.

Especially not after he promises that after a few months of successful heists they’d be able to pick their own villain themes, with Cisco’s assistance. 

The heist goes well enough – they get lots of publicity right next to the awful tenements near old McFeely Park, Flash lets them get away with about half the cash they'd lifted – the physical form of a wire transfer, Monsanto money being shipped in from the local farmers, and the farmers' obligations being done once they paid meant the loss was all on the corporation – and the potluck goes well, too.

Jax brings casseroles for everyone. "I have another three out back," he says to Webber, who'd brought soda. "You don’t want to know. Even my Great Aunt Josephine got in on the action when she heard the words 'speedster metabolism'. Your mom's gonna be descended on by an army, just warning you."

"She could use an army," Webber says, eyes suspiciously wet. "Thanks."

Barry brought pizza. Twenty-seven boxes of pizza.

"You're a crazy person," Webber tells him, opening one of the boxes which has the weirdest pizza toppings Len's ever seen. "But you've got great taste."

"You're all crazy," Len says. "Barry, this here's Webber – or Wally, whatever – and he's gonna be a junior Rogue, too."

"Nice to meet you," Barry says, shaking Webber's hand. "This is Caitlin Snow, her husband Ronnie Raymond, Cisco Ramon, Iris West, and my ghost-mom, Nora Allen."

"Ghost-mom?" Webber asks. 

"Did Len not tell you about the ghost thing?" Iris asks. "It's a hell of a story."

"No, I just know the basics – hey, wait, you said your last name is West?"

"Yeah, Iris West."

"Cool," Webber says. "I'm Wally West."

"Nice! Last name bros!" 

"Maybe we're related," Webber says. "Cousins or something. That'd be awesome – god, this is gonna be so awkward for first time meeting conversation, but my mom's sick – cancer – she needs a bone marrow transplant and I'm not compatible, so we’ve been asking people – "

"I'd be happy to get tested," Iris says immediately. "Absolutely. My mom died when I was a kid, when I was too young to really remember, so – yeah. Happy to help."

"You're awesome," Webber says happily. "I'll ask her about maybe-cousins when I next see her."

"My dad's working tonight – he's a cop and he doesn't want to _officially_ come to hang out with criminals – but I'll ask him, too. That would be so _cool_ ; I've always wanted a little cousin!"

“Cop, huh? He come down hard on drag racing?”

“Nah,” Iris says, laughing. “He doesn’t really care; says it’s better than drugs. My fiancé – also a cop, also not attending – says it’s a bad habit, but that he’ll only arrest you if you’re racing somewhere there could be collateral casualties.”

“No problem, then. That’s not my scene…” 

"Food's almost ready," Mick calls from the kitchen. "Ghosts are laying it out as we speak."

"Kind of rude not to invite them to eat if they're serving, isn't it?" Cisco asks Len.

"I'm not made of life energy," Len snipes back, then pauses. "Well, _technically_ – "

Cisco snickers. "Wish I'd known about the ghost stuff when I named you."

"The 'Captain' bit kinda covers the 'having a group to order about' stuff. Also, how would you fit it in with the cold theme? _Don’t_ say Chillbones."

"Don’t be so down on it, it’s a good name! Maybe – Ghost Cold?"

"Sounds like a disease."

"Yeah, I’m not feeling it. Let me think about it a bit more."

"Don't waste your brainpower. Let's discuss what we’ll be naming our Little League Rogue Squad..."

"The food looks fantastic," Caitlin tells Mick. 

"Thanks," he replies. "Say, you're the doc, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"Great. I'd like to talk to you about getting some updated scans of Len's brain -"

"He's had another attack?"

"We fought it off before it got severe, but the unquiet dead are causing more problems – there's been more and more of them coming to Central as Len's power increases and since friendlies are more likely to pass on eventually, the proportion’s getting worse."

"Yes, I see the problem. When was the last time he got scanned..?"

"So you're Firestorm, huh?" Jax asks Ronnie. "That's pretty neat. You and – what's his name, the grey-haired professor?"

"We're actually hoping to find another Firestorm," Ronnie tells him. "Right now, my partner, Martin Stein – he couldn't be here tonight; his wife was attending a dinner and he went with her – he and I are bound together."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, there's a mild psychic component, but the principal thing is that we need to merge on a semi-regular basis or else, boom. But if we had a third Firestorm – not even a third one in the actual merge, just someone else capable of doing it – we think that could lighten the load. Basically, we think that might mean we could stabilize it further meaning that we wouldn't _have_ to merge all the time – "

"I think I get it," Jax says. "Triads are more stable than pair-bonds."

"Exactly! You're into chemistry?"

"Hoping to be a mechanical engineer, actually."

"That was my major! What program were you thinking? CCU?"

"Nearest and cheapest."

"The engineering program's not shabby at all, actually; it cleans up pretty good nation-wide. Were you thinking of any specializations? Professor Babasijibomi is _great_ – "

“I haven’t even started thinking about that, but that’s good to know…”

Len looks around the room, ghosts floating in with grins as they watch the bickering, living people chattering and eating, Cisco talking to Lisa over Skype –

All in all, things are going pretty well.

* * *

“Never ask me for another favor ever again,” Len tells Barry a month or so later. " _Ever._ "

“You think _I’m_ happy about this?” Barry asks, making a face. “They’re my _parents_. Besides, you have no place to talk, you _also_ regularly sleep with a dead guy!”

“I’ve never given anyone life so they can have ‘released from prison’ sex,” Len says. “I feel dirty now.”

“You’re a thief.”

“This is worse.”

“…yeah,” Barry concedes, shaking his head. “So, what do you think? About Zoom and the breaches?”

“I think you’re a lot more tolerable now that you’ve stopped blaming yourself for it,” Len replies, willing to take any conversation shift away from what he just empowered Nora to do. Also, he’s right. 

Barry rolls his eyes. “I still think it’s kind of my fault, since I _did_ cause the singularity by powering up the Accelerator before deciding against going into the past, but I have accepted – how did you call it – my role as a pawn in Wells’ scheme, and now I’m working on internalizing the idea. That _wasn’t_ what I meant, though. Jay says –”

“I don’t like him.”

“ _Thank you_! I don’t _either_ but everyone’s just saying that I’m being too suspicious because of the whole thing with Wells.”

“You’re being _reasonable_ ,” Len says. “Listen, at your age, a lot of people look for a mentor, and there’s a lot of people willing to take advantage of that – especially if they have access to your powers as a result.”

“Jay doesn’t need it, though,” Barry says reluctantly. “He’s the Flash on his own world.”

“So he’s a speedster?”

“…no, he lost his powers when Zoom threw him through the breach.”

Len arches his eyebrows. “A speedster who lost his speedster powers, who now wants to mentor you? Sounds a bit familiar, don’t it?”

Barry makes a face. “What do I do, though? There’s definitely an Earth-2, and this Zoom guy is definitely sending metas through to our world with orders to kill me.”

“I’ll have Mick send some of my better ghosts with you as guards,” Len decides. “Pick one to be your go-to ghost, whichever one you like best, and they can monitor the others, maybe help you keep track of this Jay guy, see what he gets up to on his own, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t know about the ghost thing yet, so that’s an advantage we have.”

Barry nods. “Thanks,” he says. “That’ll help a lot. And can’t I just use Mom?”

“If your mom keeps getting everything she’s ever wanted, she’s going to have no regrets in no time, at which point she passes on,” Len reminds Barry. “And that’s a _good thing_. You _want_ her to pass on.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Barry sighs. “I’ll pick someone, then, and have Mom train them up; that’ll give us a bit more time with her.”

“She worries about you,” Len says. “But passing on is really the best thing for ghosts. They all seem to really like it, even the unquiet ones.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on Jay,” Barry says. “That makes me feel better already, actually. Trust but verify.”

“I’m also going to assign the Junior Squad to cover you with these new metas,” Len decides. “A few minor confrontations the next few weeks – they can plan them out themselves with you over texts – give you some eyes on the outside.”

Barry nods. “What about you? Any word on the Santini thing?”

“Not a peep, but then again, no new murder attempts, either. I’m taking it as a win.”

“Mick isn’t,” Barry says knowingly.

Len sighs. “Yeah, well, can’t have everything. You go figure out this Zoom business. Say, have you considered checking this Garrick’s story?”

“Checking it? What do you mean?”

“Set Cisco and Stein on figuring out a way to get you to Earth-2 and back and check the guy’s story. You know, credentials, birth certificate, shit like that. And while you’re there, well, maybe you can find Zoom before he finds you.”

“They’re already working on stabilizing the breaches to get Jay home,” Barry says, brightening. “And if I take the fight to Zoom –”

“Less collateral damage here,” Len says, nodding. “Let me know if you need help; we can team up to fight off the outsider.” He taps his cold gun. “I specialize in speedsters, after all.”

“Thanks,” Barry says sincerely, hopping up. “I’ll let you know.”

With a crackle of lightning and a gust of wind, he’s gone. 

Shaking his head in amusement, Len texts the new instructions to Jax and Wally – they’ve done a handful of heists with him now, they should be ready to strike out on their own, especially with Barry’s willing assistance – and contemplates, for the first time in quite a while, a more or less entirely free weekend.

More or less.

“Hey, boss,” Mick says, coming through the door. “We still hitting the cashier’s cage at the racetrack tomorrow?”

“Indeed we are,” Len says. “Let’s go pick up Lisa at the train station, treat her to dinner. Tomorrow’s going to be back to the basics, family only.”

“Good,” Mick says. “We could use something nice and simple.”

Maybe they were just tempting fate, saying something like that, because the cashier’s cage went sweet and easy, no problem, but a parked van’s doors snapping open and people in dark masks swinging batons and smashing them down on their heads is an entirely unexpected twist.

Len sees Lisa go down, hears Mick yelling, and lunges forward, only to hear a crackle of electricity – similar, yet subtly different from the Flash’s – and then everything goes dark. 

Len _hates_ tasers.

He wakes up – 

He’s not sure where he is. The trunk of a car, judging by the way he’s been stuffed inside and the bumping and shaking as they drive. A car, not the van from earlier. 

It’s strangely quiet. 

All of his joints hurt, electricity having done them no good, and his head hurts, too. His head _especially_ , actually; the back of the skull feels like he got bashed instead of shocked. 

He’s not bound, which is perhaps the most surprising part.

It’s quiet.

Len’s not sure why he keeps thinking that. The road keeps rattling, there’s a ringing in his ears…

It’s still too quiet.

The car shudders to a halt.

There’s a slammed door.

Footsteps. 

Len tenses, waiting to see what would greet him when the trunk opened – to make the split-second decision whether to leap out aggressively or to hang back, make a few snide remarks, and find out what whoever-it-is knows and wants before attacking. 

The trunk is popped open.

And then –

All of Len’s muscles seize up at once, the memory of old terrors hitting him straight in the gut. 

“Hello, son,” Lewis says.


	15. 14

Lewis Snart.

Father, abuser, _terror_ of Len’s childhood.

Len’s mind blanks out, knowing only that he needs to get out, get _away_ , and he instinctively reaches out to the ghosts for help.

Nothing.

It’s _quiet_.

“Oh,” Lewis says. “I don’t think your little ghostie friends are going to help you now.”

_How does he know?_

Len never told him, not once, never – 

The ghosts.

_Why can’t he hear the ghosts?_

“I’ve taken certain precautions against your misbehaving,” Lewis says, with a smile. “Wouldn’t want you getting distracted when we have work to be attending to.” The smile broadens. “Seems like your old man still has a few lessons to teach you after all.”

Len closes his eyes and stops asking questions.

They only ever make it worse.

“Now get out and walk.”

At least Len manages to stop shaking by the time they get to their destination, Lewis prodding Len along any time he even thinks Len is slowing down, Lewis’ fingers managing to perfectly find the bruises he’s already left behind from manhandling Len into the van earlier. Len forces himself to be as calm and cold as possible – he has to be. If there's work ahead, other people maybe, he'll expect Len to behave. Lewis always hated it when Len showed weakness in front of people. 

He might become angry.

Len’s long since learned to fear Lewis Snart’s anger. 

And if his dad has figure out a way to stop the ghosts - 

He can't think about that right now, or he'll freak out, and then Lewis will _definitely_ be angry. 

Len studies the building they’re walking towards. A Santini property, but old school – very old. A wretched old bed and breakfast, vulgar and garish, where the inside men used to bring their mistresses; it’s been abandoned by the Family for years, ten at least, though the hotel itself has chugged on, catering to the local prostitutes and the like.

Neither Len nor Mick would ever have bothered to check it out.

Santini -

The assassins.

“You had them shoot at me?” Len asks through numb lips. He hadn’t thought…he never suspected…sure, they hadn't exactly gotten on in recent years by any stretch of the imagination, but to have people try to _kill_ him...

Lewis snorts. “You’re as over-dramatic as always,” he says. “No, it wasn't me. The young Santini idiot was the one who tried to have you killed, slipping money under the table to people so corrupt or stupid that they wouldn’t recognize you because he couldn’t admit that his official attempt to get back at you – through that lout you call your partner – failed without losing face. He had to play it off like he didn’t think it was a big deal, but he brooded over it long enough to want revenge anyway. I was brought in when they realized it was in their best interest to acquire your services instead.”

“My…services? You want me to run a _heist_ for you?”

“If I wanted a heist done, I could have planned it myself,” Lewis scoffs, which is a lie. Len’s a far better thief than Lewis ever was – though Lewis’ approach is always far more brutal. Probably why the Families like him so much, and why Len refuses to work for them. “That isn’t to say we won’t be doing some thieving along the way. But the goal’s a little different, m’boy. Just wait until you meet my employer.”

“Your employer,” Len echoes, only scarcely paying attention. He’s been reaching out this entire time, calling to the ghosts, the dead, even the unquiet dead if it would get him a response, but there’s nothing, nothing at all; it’s so _quiet_. No ghosts, the background patter he’s always heard, his whole life – gone mute.

_What has he_ done _to me?_

“Pay _attention_ , boy,” Lewis snaps, and his fingers dig painfully into Len’s side. 

They go inside the bed and breakfast.

Inside the lobby, there's a young man standing there with a nervous look, twitchy fingers like a drug addict, so unmemorable it takes Len a moment to place him. Nicolas Santini, of all people! The small fish, the useless Don, the one who'd barely been able to splutter out a denial because he'd been sweating too hard. 

He doesn't look good.

No, little Nicholas looks paranoid, rich clothing and cheap jewelry, a short beard grown to add respectability but unable to disguise the way his eyes keep darting around the room like a drug addict with a looming deadline. “Is it done?” he asks Lewis, ignoring Len yet unable to keep from staring out of the corner of his eye at him, like Len’s a bomb about to go off. “Is he…?”

“I assure you my son will be causing us no difficulties, Don Santini,” Lewis says, ingratiating and fawning the way he always is around the Families. He simpered to their faces and cursed them behind their backs. “Shall we go upstairs? Your grandfather’s awaiting us, I believe.”

“Grandfather?” Len says, thrown for a moment. But no, that doesn't make sense; Len knows his Family bloodlines as well as any other criminal in Central. Nicholas Santini is the son of the daughter of - “Don Tomio, you mean? But he’s…” The words fall away from his mouth as the realization crashes down on him.

_No_.

“I think you, my boy, are the last one to complain about someone being _dead_ ,” Lewis crows. “Now why don’t you come inside?”

Len follows mutely.

He’s half expecting to see the ghostly form of old Don Tomio, sitting regally in his chair like the asshole he was, but – no. It’s another man, instead; his clothing is rich and elegant, but ill-fitting, like it was made for a much taller man. There’s a box of cigars next to him and an empty plate, resting on a side table.

The man looks squirrelly.

Sick.

There are rings under his bloodshot eyes and thick lines around his mouth and eyes; he’s far too thin and his hands shake as he drinks a slug of what smells like cheap whiskey from a flask. His nails are filthy and bitten to the quick.

“Where’s my grandfather?” Nicolas barks.

“Soon,” the man croaks, his voice a harsh rasp like a man dying. “I cannot – is this him? Is this the necromancer?”

“I’m _not_ a –”

Lewis’ hand falls heavy on Len’s shoulder. Len shuts his mouth.

“Now, son,” Lewis says. “Don’t be shy. Mr. Cabrera here is a great admirer of your work.”

Cabrera grins. His teeth are yellow and his breath is foul; Len can smell it from across the room. “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about, I did,” he says. “He don’t look like much, to be causing all this trouble.”

“Trouble?” Len can’t help but ask, even though Lewis’ hand tightens in warning.

“Oh, yes,” Cabrera laughs, picking up a cigar and snipping it down to a stub. “Little Nico here’s been having _ghost_ trouble; s’why he called me. I’m a specialist, y’see – nothing on your caliber, no, nothing like that; this whole bloody city’s positively _rotting_ with ghosts, all swarming here to see you and beg for a little of your time and attention, aren’t they?”

“Get to the point,” Nicolas snaps. “I want that damn ghost _gone_.”

“Now, now,” Lewis says, and his voice is syrupy sweet. “We’ll take care of that soon enough. But first, I think we want to speak with the Don, isn’t that right?”

Len’s own eyes dart around the room, looking for the ghost, but he sees nothing. Hears nothing.

It’s so goddamn quiet.

Cabrera lights the cigar that he cut down to a stub and settles himself down in the chair. Fluffs himself up, straightens his back, pushes his legs together in a way that’s clearly not his natural way of sitting. It’s like he’s playing a terrible charade.

"To this place, to this time, I call upon thee, restless spirit of the dead,” he says in a grand tone. “Thou who wish't to come to this place, I call upon thee by name.”

Len swallows. This is bad. This is a _summoning_ \- not that he's ever seen one, but he can put two and two together easily enough. This man is no Santini flunky. He’s a medium, a real medium, not like those two-bit hacks who pretend at it for money. What the hell is going on?

“I call upon thee –” There is the smallest of hesitations, the slightest hint of reluctance, before Cabrera goes on. “Thomas Antonio Salvatore Santini."

He inhales from the cigar.

And then it happens. 

Len _sees_ it. 

Filth, black _filth_ , crawling up Cabrera’s face from under his jacket, like a thousand little bugs, streaming upwards towards his eyes and mouth, streaming down from his sleeves, covering every inch of skin, and Len takes an involuntary step backwards, face twisting in disgust and –

They’re gone.

Cabrera’s face is clean, or at least no more dirty than it was before.

But something’s changed.

The straight back is natural, now; the hand holds the cigar casually, not clutching at it like Cabrera was. The legs are held at ready, the real thing to Cabrera’s fake.

This thing might wear Cabrera’s face, but he’s not him.

“Don Tomio Santini,” Lewis says respectfully. “Welcome back.”

Don Tomio’s lips curl up. “Indeed,” he says. “I am pleased to see that you were able to live up to your promises and deliver that son of yours, Snart – no unnecessary failures. _This_ time.”

His voice is curled in a sneer, rich in disdain. It’s clearly aimed at Nicolas, who flinches. 

“I’m the one who brought you back, Grandfather,” Nicolas argues, clearly not for the first time. “The rest of the Family, they forgot about you, but not me, no, _I_ found Cabrera for you, I did –”

“And for that you have been richly rewarded,” Tomio’s voice is hard, carelessly cruel. “I have guided your steps to rise in power within the Family, and you have received all the benefits thereof.”

“I still need to get rid of the damned ghost –”

“That, too, will be done,” Tomio says, holding up a hand, causing Nicolas to fall silent. He turns to Lewis. “You have bound him?”

“Oh, yes,” Lewis says. “He won’t touch a ghostie ever again, not without my say-so – and he’ll do anything to have that arsonist at his side again. I guarantee it.”

Len swallows, hard. “What have you done to Mick?” he asks.

Lewis shakes him. 

Len shuts up.

“Nothing yet,” Tomio says, though he’s clearly disinterested. “But there are always options. I am informed that it is possible to bind a ghost with rituals, bloody ones. Cabrera has made a study of them over the years, in addition to his natural talent for serving as a medium. Though he is not as useful as he thinks he is.”

“You’re unquiet dead,” Len says, understanding, unable to look away even though he wishes he could. He’s never met another cursed one like him, but he’s had a perfectly reasonable interest in any sort of business involving the spirits of the dead. Mediums – Len remembers his mother telling him about them, how she always said they were incredibly creepy, how he always got a feeling of disgust deep in his belly any time someone tried to compare him to one. Looks like she was right. They're creepy as _fuck_. “That’s why he looks so sick. You’ve been feeding off of him, stealing his life away even as he lets you use his body.”

“It’s amazing what people will do for money,” Tomio says dismissively; it’s clear he doesn’t care that he’s talking about a man’s life being wrenched out of him, drip by painful drab. Tomio puts the cigar down carefully on the plate, though he doesn’t put it out. He looks Len up and down. “You really aren’t much. I would have expected more.”

“Don Santini –” Lewis starts.

“Do you know,” Tomio says, his eyes fixed on Len, “how long I had to rest to recollect the energy that I was forced to spend? The precious life energy that keeps me here, all wasted on shepherding _children_?”

Children? Why would an unquiet –

Ah.

“The black hole,” Len says.

“You _ordered_ ,” Tomio says, sneering. “And I obeyed. And my dear young Mr. Snart – I don’t like taking orders.”

“It wasn’t aimed at you,” Len says, though he knows something like that is worthless to a man like Tomio.

“Irrelevant,” Tomio confirms.

“Why didn’t I see you when I first came in?” Len asks, changing the subject. “How did you take away – why can’t I see you, ‘cept through Cabrera?”

“Only your father knows the secret to that,” Tomio says. “I, however, know another of your secrets.”

“And what secret is that?” Len asks, even though he knows it’s a bad idea, even with Lewis jabbing painfully at his ribs to get him to shut up.

Tomio smiles, twisting Cabrera’s cheeks into a distended grimace as muscles contort into a smile that’s not quite the right shape for the mouth. “I know about the black book.”

Len goes still.

“I was receiving treatment for the early stages of the cancer that would kill me,” Tomio says, “in a hospital long ago. You were in the room next door, speaking to the air like a madman – except when you walked out, there was a boy with you, a boy that hadn’t been there before. And I started to wonder, just enough – enough to start doing some research of my own – but then you decided you didn’t work with the Families and disappeared off the face of the earth just when I needed you.” His hands clench on the chair, his face purples a little. Rage. _Entitlement_ \- like Len had wronged him by going his own way. 

His eyes flicker to the cigar stub, which is starting to burn out, and he straights himself again, mastering himself with an effort. “But although I was not able to have you save me before my death, I have learned enough after it. You will repair the error that has occurred. You will fetch the necessary ingredients,” Tomio says. “Nicolas and your father will supervise. If you disobey, Cabrera will bind you to his will and force you to do it.”

Len’s mouth goes ashy in horror. He doesn’t know what Cabrera is capable of, but the idea of binding another person like that…stripping them of all free will...

“You will then raise me up,” Tomio says, and his eyes glow with fervor and barely leashed fury. “And then I will return to the Santini Family to take my rightful place at its head, and I will show them my displeasure at how they have wasted the empire that I built.”

“Grandfather,” Nicolas says. “The ghost girl –”

“Yes, yes,” Tomio snaps. “That will be done as well.” His eyes flicker to the cigar again. “Enough. I must rest.”

The cigar burns out.

Tomio abruptly exhales, expelling foul smoke from his mouth like he’d been holding it in the entire time. Then he starts hacking, his body loose again – Cabrera returned.

“Come on, then,” Lewis says, and forces Len away. "We have work to do."


	16. 15

“I can’t do it,” Len says immediately once they're both downstairs and out of hearing range. “You don't understand, I _can’t_ –”

“You can and you will,” Lewis snaps. “Don’t you dare embarrass me in front of the old man, son; once he returns, he’ll have an iron grip on power, and we’ll be the only ones who know his secret – think of the power we’ll have, you and I –”

“It doesn’t _work_ like that,” Len hisses. “I was – I wasn’t _serious_ –”

“Be quiet,” Lewis snarls. “Not in the house! He might decide to come back into Cabrera –”

“He can’t hear us,” Len says impatiently; he needs his dad to understand what they're dealing with so that they can hurry up and get to the point in which Len refuses to do this, Lewis beats the crap out of him, and then, with luck, they part ways. Sometimes Lewis demands Len make it up to him somehow, whether by helping with a heist or something like that; Len can do that. Len cannot do _this_. This is worse than blasphemy; the mere suggestion is an abomination. “Tomio's definitely gone for the moment. Cabrera controls when he comes and goes; that’s why he uses the cigar. It’s the guide that draws Tomio in. As long as it’s lit, Tomio has the body; when it’s out, Cabrera returns. It’s obvious.”

“Huh,” Lewis says, looking contemplative. “He always said –”

“Of course _he always said_ ; he doesn’t want to appear weak! But –”

“You talking back to me, boy?” Lewis asks, and his voice has gone cold.

Len falters. He’s reminded of how much his body hurts, his head aching terribly, his bruises tender, his chest all tight with anxiety. Worse, he's reminded of how much it _could_ hurt. What he feels now is nothing; his dad always knew how to identify Len's limits and go past them in an effort to teach Len what he called 'lessons', no matter what Len did. He's the one who taught Len what his limits were in the first place; everything Len's ever learned about hurting another human being, he learned from the man standing before him now. “No, sir.”

"Good," Lewis says with satisfaction. 

"What did you do to me?" Len asks instead, because that’s what he really cares about right now when you put aside the whole awful request. The way he is right now, he couldn't do it anyway, which means his dad has figured out something that Len hasn't, and that doesn't happen that often. 

But it's not just that cold calculation, that worry that his dad has an ace up his sleeve - his dad always has an ace, that's how he operates. He'd never go after Len without some sort of plan to put Len under his thumb once more. 

It's just terror. Bone-deep terror, of the sort Len's never felt before, not even when he thought was going to die. Terror beyond the fear of whatever else his dad has planned, because right now Len can't hear his ghosts and he's totally losing it. He never even questioned it before; he never knew how the whispers of the ghosts were his constant backdrop until now. He never knew how much his whole world was based on what he had thought was an unalterable fact of his existence. 

It’s so quiet. 

He has to find a way to make the quiet _stop_ or else he’ll go mad. 

Len forces himself to add, "Dad. Don Santini said it was your secret, but..."

Lewis laughs, cruel and ugly. "Oh, you always thought you were so much smarter than your old man, didn't you?" he asks. "Always thought you could fix my heists, like they needed fixing – you were always so squeamish, trying to save lives, like _that's_ at all important compared to getting the job done. Well, I've figured you out. I know how to shut you off."

"But _how_?"

Lewis smiles and puts a hand on Len's shoulder. His fingers dig in, less out of a desire to make a point than sheer habitual malice. "Don't think you need to know that right now, son."

Len's fingers clench. But he knows his role, as much as he hates it. "Of course not," he says, studying the ground. "But, Dad, how can I learn my lesson if you don't tell me?"

Lewis smirks.

One thing Len knows: Lewis never could keep from boasting about his goddamn cleverness. It’s a trait Len knows all too well that he’s inherited; he’s tried to manage the downsides of such a trait by restricting his crowing about his stunts to Mick, who listens fondly to the thousandth round of ‘and then I did _this_ – you know because you were there, but it was _so awesome_ ’, and even then he sometimes finds himself having to call off jobs because he's opened his big mouth and boasted about it to the wrong person. 

But getting Lewis to that stage – well, sometimes it takes a few steps. 

Len swallows his pride. Ego isn't going to help him now. "Please?"

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lewis says, drawing the words out. “Maybe I don’t think you need to know this one at all.”

Len bows his head. “Sure, dad,” he says meekly. “Guess I’ll just never know how you taught me.”

Lewis frowns a little. Nothing like the thought of his cleverness going unrecognized to make him reconsider a decision to withhold information – especially if it looks like Len’s not going to suffer from fits of curiosity like Lewis would like him too. No point in dangling something the other side doesn’t visibly want, after all.

Not when the point of withholding the information is to cause suffering, anyway.

After a few moments – and shoving Len into the passenger side of the car, like he couldn’t get in himself – Lewis snorts, and Len knows he's won the battle, if not the war; Lewis won't be able to resist telling him. “Glass,” Lewis says.

“What?” Len asks, thrown. That makes no sense. 

"Glass," Lewis repeats. "It's glass."

At Len's dumbfounded look, he laughs. 

“You were sixteen or something,” Lewis says, reminiscing with a faint smirk. “I had the Santinis over and you got underfoot the way you always did, being annoying and disturbing people –” Len _never_ willingly interrupted a Family meeting his dad was holding, but this isn’t the first time they’ve disagreed over what constitutes being a disturbance. Sitting quietly in the corner not doing anything when someone gets angry, for instance. “—and when Piero tried being nice to you, you brushed him off like trash. Remember that?”

Len does remember that, actually; Piero – now Don Piero Santini, head of the Santini Family’s hooker wing, dipping his filthy fingers both into running the local pimps and importing new ones through trafficking – had been young, then, just another one of Don Tomio’s sons, not even a Don in his own right yet, but he’d been just as awful. Len had been bringing out beers for everyone all evening, his father’s version of hospitality, and Piero had followed Len back into the kitchen when he’d been taking the empty bottles to throw away, and he’d grabbed Len, put his sticky fingers over him, and Len had pulled away in revulsion. It hadn’t even been voluntary, his disgust momentarily overriding his instincts for self-preservation. 

Piero had grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it over Len’s head. 

Don Tomio had laughed. 

Yeah, Len remembers that. That’d been the time he’d gone to the hospital despite his father’s edicts against it. The time he'd panicked terribly and thought he was dying, that he'd nearly died. The time he’d told Mick about the black book.

First time they’d kissed.

“You made such a goddamn fuss,” Lewis says, shaking his head in memory. “Little scratch on the head like that, it was nothing – I had to escort the Santinis out of there, apologizing for you the whole time, ‘cause you were being such a baby, and then before I came home to show you what’s what, your stupid sister called the ambulance. Cost us a pretty penny.”

Len nods mutely. When it looks like Lewis isn’t going to continue, lost in memory, still grumbling about the cost of the goddamn ambulance that was probably the only thing that saved Len’s life, Len asks, “But, Dad, what’s that got to do with the ghosts? I know I’m dumb, but I don’t get it.”

“You are dumb,” Lewis says, appeased, puffing up his chest a bit at the thought of understanding something Len doesn’t. “Last thing I heard when we was walking out was you caterwauling like a crazy person, screaming about how you couldn’t see Mick – that stupid invisible friend you were always whispering with, and also that partner you showed up with some years later – and when I found out about Lisa's little talent after the black hole business, I put two and two together. I knew at once that it wasn't Lisa, she never spoke to the air or had invisible friends or nothing, so it had to be you, and then I remembered you and the glass and all that screaming - yeah, it was easy enough to figure out. It’s the glass, y’see.”

_They said you had_ glass _in your_ skull, Len remembers Mick saying, sounding so young, so upset. 

The back of his head throbs.

“You put glass in my head,” Len says dully.

“Didn’t need much,” Lewis confirms. “Your stupid ma always did say a hundredth part was enough of anything. She’s where you got it from, I bet. Stupid bitch never told me, not even when we could've used it - selfish, she was, always selfish.”

Len doesn’t bother arguing. 

Glass. He’d never known. He'd never even thought back on that time enough to guess. 

It’s so _quiet_. 

"Now,” Lewis says. “Why don’t we talk instead about what you'll be needing to do what Don Santini asks."

Len swallows. The black book – a ghost’s fondest dream, to come back to life whole and entire, not as a ghost, not even as the close-enough mimicry that Len’s given to Mick, but life _itself_. Their _own_ life back, instead of leeching off the life of others; everything any ghost's ever wanted.

He can't. He doesn't know what it'll do - to him, to them, to the universe. 

But he lied, all those years ago, when he told Mick he didn't know _how_ to do it.

_The worst thing you can do_ , his mother had told him, eyes wistful, thinking of her own family where she learned all of this, _is also the easiest. If I could not tell you, I would, and let the damned knowledge die forever. But it's too easy, baby, too easy to get wrong, and I won't let you blunder into it by accident when I can save you from that fate. So let me tell you how it's done, so you don't ever do it. Let me teach you. Let me tell you how to make the dead dance on this earth again. But, my son: this you must never do!_

But Lewis can’t ever know that. No one can.

Len can't do it.

Len _won't_ do it.

And with that decision made, all that's left is finding out how much it's going to hurt him - how much Lewis is going to hurt him - for refusing. 

"Dad – " he starts, aiming for conciliatory, something to soothe the blow of Len’s refusal.

"Do you know what this is?" Lewis asks abruptly, showing him a remote he pulls out of his pocket.

Len hesitates. He doesn't. A remote can be programmed to anything, and his father is the worst sort of cunning. Lewis Snart always has an ace up his sleeve. _Always_.

"This is your sister's life."

Len's blood runs cold. "No."

"This here remote is programmed to set off a bomb," Lewis says, and smiles. Len doesn't see a lie in that smile, no matter how desperately he searches for one. “You didn’t think you’re the only one with a piece of glass in their head, do you?”

“Glass –”

“High end fiber optics set up,” Lewis says with satisfaction. “I click this button, it activates the frequency. Keep it on long enough, well.” He mimes an explosion with one hand, making a fist and then spreading his fingers wide. “Her pretty little head goes boom.”

“But Lisa ain’t got the power,” Len protests. “You know she doesn't. I’m the only one that does. You don’t need to put glass in _her_.”

If he can get Lewis to remove the threat to Lisa –

“I know,” Lewis says, crushing Len’s tiny shred of hope. “But it’s always good to have a Plan B, especially since I’m going to have to pull the glass out of you to let you do your thing. Can't have you taking advantage of that little break to start summoning up whoever you please for a rescue mission.”

Len looks down at his lap, where his hands are clenched so tight that his nails have started to draw blood from his palms. As much as he hates to give his dad credit for anything, it’s not a bad plan.

There’s every chance that it’ll work, actually. Len can’t risk anything happening to Lisa, he’s never been able to risk that, and he believes his father when he says that he’s put a bomb in her head, as monstrous an idea as it is. And without his ability, he'd never be able to get someone to warn Lisa of the danger - like him, she probably just figured that the pain in her head was the results of having been knocked out, not of having a bomb in there. She'd be confused, annoyed, but not scared, and she wouldn't bother going to a doctor to get it checked out. She'd never know to do it. 

Just as bad, Len has no idea what happens to Mick if Len’s power is shut off – he’s still a ghost, in the end; a strong one, yes, one that people can see, but if he spends the life energy that Len gave him in a futile attempt to find Len, to _save_ him, then by the time Mick actually does find him, he’ll be weak enough for Cabrera’s bindings to trap him. And that would be utterly intolerable, as intolerable as the idea of anything happening to Lisa. 

And Len won’t even be able to see him to warn him. The fact that he saw Cabrera’s possession – mediums are the creepiest goddamn creatures in the world, well beyond ghosts, it’s official – while Lewis and Nicolas didn’t even flinch means that he’s still got some of his ability, buried as it is beneath the glass, but the ghosts make no noise anymore and he hasn't seen or heard a single one, even though he _knows_ how many there are in this city.

It’s so _quiet_.

Len has no doubt that they’ll get Mick, either; Tomio rose to rule the Santini Family with an iron fist from the unenvious position of being the seventh grandson, born on the right side of the sheets via a marriage taking place less than two weeks before his birth, and he did it by virtue of being more ruthless than everyone else. Assuming Mick's still out there and free somewhere, it wouldn’t be hard to lure Mick in – Len foolishly gave him the task of dealing with the Santini problem, and Mick’s only gotten more and more obsessed with the issue after repeated failures. Now that Len’s gone missing, if there’s so much as a _hint_ that someone knows something, Mick will be there, and Cabrera will be waiting. 

And then, with both Mick and Lisa under threat, Len will be under his dad’s thumb for good. At least until he raises the dead too many times and his soul, and very likely his life, is lost for good.

It’s like Lewis always told him. There’s no escape. Lewis will always win in the end, and this whole time, Len’s just been kidding himself, thinking he's been free, thinking he somehow won his freedom. So many years of freedom. With Lisa, with Mick…

_No_.

Len didn’t give up and given in to Lewis' plots when he was a kid, and he’s damn well not giving up now.

He just needs _time_.

“Now what ingredients do you need for the resurrection ritual?” Lewis asks.

“Earth,” Len says, trying to think of something that sounds realistic. He's never done a ritual in his life; his curse doesn't work that way, but Cabrera's powers clearly do, and Lewis is obviously assuming they run on similar lines. False, but Len's never one to correct his opponent's mistakes for them. “You know – ashes to ashes, dust to dust –” 

That’s a Christian thing, not a Jewish thing, but it sounds good, and what does Lewis know of Judaism anyway? 

“It’d be best if it’s from Don Tomio’s home," Len adds, thinking of vampire myths. "The real one, back in Italy. That'd be the best, so it’s associated with him –”

“Easy enough to get,” Lewis says carelessly, crushing Len's hopes. “The Santinis import plants from their hometown in Italy, dirt and all; we’ll get some. What else?”

Len tries to think – everything that comes to mind, earth, blood, whatever, it’s all too easy to get; he needs to play for time, he needs something _hard_ to get, something that would be _guarded_ –

“Diamonds,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“Diamonds,” Len says. “Blood diamonds, unmarked by modern light.”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?”

“Means they can’t have the new IDs engraved on them,” Len says. He has absolutely no idea what’s coming out of his mouth, but it seems to be working so he's going to lean into it. “You know how glass shuts me up? Lasers nowadays are all glass and mirrors; using them fucks with the purity of the diamonds.”

“What the hell do you need a diamond for, though?” Lewis asks skeptically, but not as disdainfully or disbelievingly as Len might have feared.

“The soul is more precious than diamonds, and nothing you desire compares to her,” Len misquotes, butchering the Biblical language horribly to make it fit his needs. He never learned the Bible properly, not even the Hebrew one like he was supposed to, but Mick was a good Irish boy raised in the 1930s and he’d had it strapped into his backside so thoroughly that even Len has picked up some parts of it by proxy. “For she is a tree of life to those who take hold of her.” He thinks a bit more. There’s got to be more quotes he can use. “The sin of men is written down with an iron stylus, and it's with diamond point that it's engraved on the tablet of their heart.”

It’s all bullshit, of course; from what he recalls of the relevant quotation, it's _knowledge_ that is more precious than _rubies_ , and which gives life, it’s all goddamn _metaphor_ , and the second bit wasn’t even from the same goddamn book as the first part and at any rate is talking about something entirely different.

But it sounds half convincing.

If only half. 

“So we need _diamonds_?” Lewis asks, screwing up his face in annoyance. 

“I never said it was _cheap_ ,” Len says, keeping his voice as calm as possible when he wants to scream and beg for Lewis not to do this. But that never helped before; only calmness and coldness can help. Just like Lewis always taught him. “Human lives rarely are.”

Lewis grunts thoughtfully.

Len can’t _believe_ this is working.

“You put in a hell of a lot of effort to get that Kahndaq diamond those months back,” Lewis finally says, and Len has to force his shoulders straight and to make himself hide the sudden overwhelming flood of relief. It _worked_ , he's done it; he’s convinced Lewis of his lies, bought himself precious time to think of a plan to get out of this, and all because that particular gem has an association with marriage. Even when Mick isn't present, he's saving Len's ass. “That was an old one, and a biggie; bet you needed that for that stunt you pulled on Black Hole Day. All those ghosts swarming over the city – like something out of a goddamn movie, that was.”

Like out of Ghostbusters, actually. Mick had made the joke at least a thousand times, and Barry at least a thousand times more, and then Lisa had gotten in on it, and that’s not counting the number of times the _other_ ghosts had joined in.

Sadly, Len had smirked every single goddamn time someone had made the joke, because he’d thought it was never going to not be funny.

Looks like he found the one time it isn’t. 

“That how you found out about me?” Len asks. “The curse, I mean?”

“What curse?”

“My ability,” Len explains. “With ghosts.”

Lewis snorts. “Doesn’t sound like a curse to me,” he opines. “You could make serious bank with that, m’boy, but you use it for frivolities like playing around with that ghost partner of yours. Guess it explains why no one was ever able to kill him and make it stick – hard to kill the dead, ain't it?”

“Yeah,” Len says. Might as well admit it, since Lewis already knows the rest of it. 

“Easier to bind them, though, according to Cabrera.”

Len remains silent. That jab hurt, but he can't let Lewis see that, or he'll just keep going after the sore spot. 

“Yeah, that’s when I figured out you weren’t just nutso,” Lewis continues. “Always thought you were a bit conked in the head, honestly; just like that whore of a mother of yours. Pity I never cottoned on to her, now _that_ would have been a hell of a lot more of a money-maker than her ass ever was –”

Len grits his teeth, then releases the tension with a force of will. He's not going to let his dad goad him into a reaction that he'll just get punished for having. 

“You’re a bad son,” Lewis taunts. “Not even saying anything to defend your ma anymore?”

“No, Dad,” Len says, forcing his tone as even as he can get it. “I know better than to argue with you.”

“Damn right you do,” Lewis says, satisfied. “Now tell me where we can get your unmarked diamonds.”

“How would I know?”

“Son…”

Len knows that tone of voice. Lewis doesn't care that Len hasn't had time to plan, that he's asking the impossible; that tone suggests that Lewis did Len the favor of giving him life, all those years ago, and that Len's failure to immediately produce results means that he's got to start repaying that debt right away, and that Lewis will make Len regret every minute of it. That tone is nothing but a prelude to pain. 

Len thinks fast.

“Dalamar’s provides all the security for high-end jewel stores in the city,” hesays, fishing the factoid out of his brain in a fit of desperation. He’d looked up their location and floor plans for a separate heist, but he'd opted against doing anything rash like hitting the security headquarters itself. Once he hit Dalamar's, it would be far too risky hitting a store right where they expected to be hit; that isn't why he kept an eye on it, anyway. In his view, it was always good to keep up with the newest developments in what technology was actually being used in the city, and there was nothing like a security shop for finding that out. But if you were desperate to find a diamond and you didn't much care about keeping a low profile... “Their HQ will have a list of all the important imports and exports, plus blueprints of the relevant building plans. We can break in there, easy, and from there we can go get the diamonds.”

“Knew you knew something,” Lewis says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “It's a plan, then. We’ll hit the HQ for the blueprints, gather up a crew – I’ve already got some help waiting, knew it wouldn’t be that easy – then we’ll go in after the diamonds. You can use some for your resurrection bullshit, and the rest can serve as, heh, a bit of spending money, getting Tomio back in power and me by his side.”

Len personally thinks that Tomio will have Lewis shot the second he can in order to hide the details of his resurrection; unlike Cabrera or Len, Lewis possesses nothing that Tomio won’t be able to do himself. Lewis might have some leverage with his control over Len, but that won’t last forever, not once Tomio figures out the details of the glass trick and the fact that he can do it just as well without Lewis' assistance. Better, probably; Tomio lacked many of Lewis' more easily exploitable faults. 

He knows this isn't a solution. Len’s bought himself some time, at most; even his father’s slapdash heists still need a day or two of planning. He has time to try to plan a way out of this, even though his entire body is tensed up in panic and his brain is screaming for lack of noise, a quiet so deep that his brain keeps coming back to it, beating helplessly against it, making it impossible to think for more than a few seconds straight. 

It's so quiet. 

He hates it. 

“So where’s the Dalamar HQ?”

But Len will think of something - some way to save Lisa, some way to save Mick, some way to save himself, because he can't do it. He can't bring Tomio back to wreak havoc on the world. He'll think of something. 

He _has_ to.

“Fifth and Hoyt,” Len says and closes his eyes.


	17. 16

Barry shows up at the worst possible time.

The sound of crackling lightning that accompanies the Flash is unmistakable, and loud, too; if Barry had bothered with even a small bit of subtlety, Len might've been able to convey some actual information to him. As it is, though, Len can see his dad in Barry's blind spot, heading their way. Lewis can see Len, which means Len can't say anything incriminating - after all, it was his dad that taught Len how to read lips. 

"Hey," Barry says, smiling. He does not expect to be attacked - why would he? They've been all but allies these past few months. "How are you?"

"Peachy," Len says grimly, his eyes fixed beyond Barry's shoulder. His father has pulled the remote out of his pocket.

The remote for Lisa.

Len can't let that happen. He knows his dad too well to believe that this whole thing is entirely a bluff - maybe some of it is, yes, but his dad is dangerous, Len's always known that. The possibility that he's lying now is useless when weighed against the possibility of harm coming to Lisa. The risk is just too great. Len can't do it. 

Barry's Nora's boy, her baby, a good man and an upstanding superhero, and Len likes him well enough, but Lisa –

He can't lose Lisa.

Barry tilts his head to the side and stops smiling. "Hey, why aren’t you – " he starts.

Len shoots his feet with the cold gun, running it all the way up to his waist.

Barry has super-healing. He'll be fine.

Len hopes.

"Well done," his dad says, slowing to a casual stroll. The hand he's holding the remote with drops back into his pocket, but he doesn't release it. He's looking at Barry suspiciously. 

Len's confused for a moment, wondering if his dad was somehow unaware of the existence of the Flash, and then, abruptly, he understands. Lewis thinks Barry might be a _ghost_ , that Len’s slipped his glass leash somehow, that it’s some plan Len’s thought up as a way to get out.

Len would laugh if it wasn't so horrific. 

He almost wishes it were true, but no, he's no less deaf to the sounds of the dead than he was when Lewis left him. 

"Thanks, dad," he says instead, willing Barry to hear what's not being said. Len's a private man, he doesn't talk about his dad much, but surely Barry will check with someone – Mick, or Lisa, or, hell, even Nora, she might have picked something up, she's been around for years. Maybe she's there, hovering there invisible where Len can't see or hear her - Len has no idea if that's true, but he can only hope - and if Nora is there, maybe she can tell Barry that something's wrong. Surely _someone_ can pass along the message that Len would _never_ work with his father. Maybe this stunt will be enough to pass on the message to someone who can explain - someone who can help - someone who can come get him out of this mess, but in a smart way, a clever way, a way that would keep Lisa from harm. 

Barry doesn't look like he's being told to play along by Nora, though. He looks betrayed.

"You know what they say, Flash," Len drawls, aiming for casual snark despite his desperation. His fights with the Flash were pretty well publicized, after all; there's a chance his dad wouldn’t have figured out that they work together sometimes. He just needs Barry to _get it_. "Live fast – die young."

He turns on his heels, blueprints in hand, and follows his dad out the door.

His dad's chuckling. Fucking _chuckling_. 

This whole fiasco is _funny_ to him. 

"Live fast, die young," Lewis quotes, mocking Len's drawl like he doesn't have a Central City slum accent himself. "You always were one for the catchy phrases. You think that got rid of him?"

Len shrugs. "One can hope," he says neutrally. "But I've found the Flash is like a cockroach – can't keep him down."

"Not a fan, I take it?"

"I barely got the Kahndaq Diamond away from him," Len points out. "And he got me arrested for the first time in a long while."

He's not lying. His dad can usually tell when he lies, not unless Len's as desperate as he was when he was spinning his stories about the resurrection, and Len needs to play it safe. Lewis needs to think Len's being up front with him, or else he might figure out that the whole thing is a lie based on a lie, and then there goes Len's hard-won time to think.

Luckily, Len's long ago developed the skill to walk around the truth. 

His dad nods, satisfied. "The blueprints look good," he says smugly. He always gets smug about his plans; he always thinks they're going to go right. Usually says something to that effect right before they turn into a bloodbath. "Got a plan for them already."

Len swallows. Already? He'd been hoping for more time - time for Barry to get back to his friends, time for them to figure out what's up, time for him to come up with a plan to get out of this. 

"The safe – " he starts. 

"Got a tech guy all lined up already," his dad says dismissively. "Jacobsen. He'll handle it."

" _Jacobsen_?" Len asks, slightly incredulous. The guy's got a decent reputation as a tech man, at least, decent enough for a Family man, but Len's never worked with him because of his reputation of selling things out halfway through. He's a coward and a liar and while Len doesn't have anything against those traits in isolation, he can't stand bottom-feeders like that on his crews.

"You questioning my selection?" Lewis asks. His voice is mild, dangerous to those that know him. Lewis doesn’t approve of showing emotions. Or having them, for that matter.

"No," Len says, because it's the only answer he can give. "Just – impressed. That you were able to get him to be reliable."

"I have my ways," Lewis says and laughs. "As you and your sister well know."

Oh, yes, Len and Lisa know Lewis' ways all too well, but Len also knows that the methods that work to scare children into terrified obedience, methods that linger into adulthood for those children, are not at all effective on grown adults, especially criminals with Family connections. It must be something else – blackmail, perhaps. Blackmail’s a terrible way to hold onto people – it makes them cowed and unenthusiastic; it breeds resentment, anger, distraction; it undermines the cohesiveness of the crew.

But when they get to the warehouse Lewis has been using as a home base, Jacobsen doesn’t seem cowed. He doesn’t seem worried at all, to be entirely honest; he seems almost disdainful.

"You said there'd be a heist," he whines at Lewis almost immediately. "But I've been cooling my heels for near on a week – hey, who's this?"

"Jacobsen, this is my son. He'll be assisting us, along with his very valuable cold gun," Lewis says dismissively. He lays out the plans on the table. "Now," he says. "This is what we're going to do..."

Len tries to interrupt a few times, offering improvements - he's hit these guys before, though it was years ago - but Lewis keeps cutting him off.

Jacobsen keeps getting more and more irritated, though, and his irritation in turn triggers Lewis', which in turn causes Len to shrink into himself more and more.

God, he wishes he could hear someone. Anyone at all, just to drown out Lewis' voice, filling Len's skull, emptying it of thought, until the only thing Len can hear is the endless repetition that always starts up in Len's mind when Len's around his dad, that plaintive wail of _oh god no please, please no, don't let him hurt me, don't let me end up like_ her _please I don't want to die on the floor choking on my own life please not like her not like mom please no_.

It doesn't help that he's started to think about the possibilities, either.

About what the glass in his head might mean.

Len's started gnawing at his lower lip. Possibly through.

He can't see the dead through the glass in his head. That doesn't mean they can't see _him_. While that's good in some ways - if Nora was advising Barry, invisibly, then they might figure out the problem faster - it's bad in far more. _They_ might be able to come for him, the unquiet dead, come for him in increased numbers, wait for a moment where he's shaking for fear of his father, wait for a minute where he's sick and empty of life, filled with nothing more than dying, and then they'll reach inside of him and scoop him out, handful by handful, until he's empty –

Until he dies on the floor, choking and spasming, just like his mother.

Len fears that death more than a bullet to the gut.

His friendly ghosts will protect him as always, of course - but what if they already are? What if there's a silent battle raging around him, friendly against angry, the unquiet hordes being repelled? But even his friendlies cannot repel the unquiet dead forever; he's always had to give more of his life to them, to bolster them, and he _can't do that right now_...

He needs to stop thinking about this before he whips himself into a panic attack.

He focuses instead on the plans.

"But what if we take the elevator – we could avoid –" he starts.

"Son, son," Lewis says with a sigh. "You're still learning your lessons, are you? Leave it to me. Your cold gun will do the job in here, won't it?"

"Yeah," Jacobsen chimes in even as Len nods, because this is the first time Lewis has intervened to put Len down rather than just ignoring him; it emboldens Jacobsen, because he’s a coward as well as a bully and wasn’t willing to face off with Len without what he thinks is Lewis’ support. "You're just here 'cause of your cold gun. You're useless otherwise, just hanging off of Daddy's coattails –"

Len barely even hears him, worried as he is about the ghosts – about his father – about the black book – and even if he had been paying attention, the opinion of a Family scum-feeder like Jacobsen means nothing, less than nothing. Len knows his skills, knows what he can do, and that means more to him than to anybody else's insults.

But somehow, out of all of Jacobsen's whining, _that's_ the thing that pisses Lewis off.

Implying that Len is useless – despite it being something Lewis has said many times, for Jacobsen to imply that Lewis doesn't know how to staff his jobs, for Jacobsen to insult the value of something that Lewis feels he owns the way he feels like he owns Len – 

"Don't you insult my son," Lewis snaps in a way that had convinced Len for far too long as a child that Lewis did care for him, somewhere deep inside, before Len had learned that the only thing Lewis cared about was himself.

Jacobsen sneers at him. "Yeah, whatever, old man," he says. "Don't even know why I'm here, wasting my time."

"Fine," Lewis says, and pulls out the remote – no, a similar one, not quite the same. "In that case, I think we can do without."

One click, and Jacobsen staggers. Clutches at his head as a piercing hum fills the room. "What is that?" he gasps. "Oh fuck, my head – my _head_ – feels like it’s gonna –"

He screams.

His head explodes.

_Literally_ explodes.

Len recoils, then stares at the body on the ground in horror.

"Nobody talks to my son that way," Lewis says with satisfaction, and claps Len on the shoulder. 

Len can't take his eyes off the body.

That could be him.

That could be Lisa.

That –

Jacobsen was never meant to help them. He was an example, that's all.

"Take the body and ditch it on the truck outside," Lewis says dismissively. "Oh, and see if you can find a better tech guy, will you?" 

Len crouches down and picks up the body, scooping it into his arms like a baby – like Lisa, little Lisa, baby Lisa, the Lisa Len raised, that Len fed, that Len helped with her homework, took to school every day, took skating. 

He can't stop seeing it happening to her – her staggering, her delicate hand rising up to her forehead in pain – her eyes wide and filled with tears, looking at him, not understanding, asking "Lenny?" in a tremulous voice he hasn't heard since she was twelve, and then – her head – the explosion –

And him not able to summon ghosts any more, not able to see them anymore, losing her _forever_ –

Len's not entirely sure what to call what his brain does next. It just – stops.

Goes as quiet as the world outside, the world without ghosts.

There is no pain. There is no thought. There is _nothing_.

He takes the body to the truck and drives the truck away, ditching it by the docks. He takes another car back. 

None of it seems to be really happening.

It's all a dream, a terrible nightmare. He's happy he can feel nothing, because he knows if he were to awaken, if he could feel his fingers, feel the limp tongue inside his numb lips, then he would be panicking. He would be beating the walls until his hands were broken and bleeding.

He would be _screaming_.

He comes back inside the safehouse.

"Good boy," Lewis praises him, and smiles. "Now sit."

Len sits.

Lewis pulls the remote out of his pocket.

Lisa's remote.

"Now, this one's for your sister," Lewis says, as if Len doesn't already know it. "And unless you want to see what happened to Jacobsen happen to her, you're going to do everything I say. Isn't that right?"

Len nods dully.

"Say it."

It takes more than one effort to unstick Len's tongue, to swallow the dryness in his throat, to speak.

" _Say it_."

"That's right, sir."

Lewis starts to laugh. "That's my son," he says, smug and satisfied. "That's my boy."

Len just sits where he was told, silent and unmoving.

And inside, he's screaming.

Len's not sure how long he sits there, blank and unmoving, before Lewis notices.

“Get up,” he sneers. “Get whatever else we need.”

Len bows his head and gets up. He still feels numb. He’s still screaming where no one can hear him. He wants Mick to come to him, to make it better somehow, even though he knows how illogical that wish is. Mick always made everything better.

But his dad said to do something, and Len knows better than not to do it.

They have the uniforms for the heist – three of them, for them and the tech guy – there’s his cold gun, of course, which will deal with the lasers – there’s that Draycon keypad that Len can't deal with himself, which means at some point he'll need to snap out of his stupor and go to recruit somebody. Assuming Lewis will let Len out of his sight, anyway; he let him go with the truck, but Len suspects that it was a test of his subservience and shock.

A very effective test.

There’s a soft thump in the distance. A car door being slammed shut.

Len wonders almost idly through the solid wall of shock that surrounds him who that could be. Under normal circumstances, he would be concerned that it was the police, moving on silent as they surrounded the place, weapons in hand, sirens about to turn on. Someone usually hit their door too hard when that happened. It was a sign to get up and check, because Len didn't get to be one of the finest thieves in Central City by not indulging his paranoia.

He doesn’t move from where he’s checking the guns. They need to be ready to use, or else Dad will be angry.

Right now, that’s more important to him than the cops. The cops are probably Dad’s friends anyway.

Distantly, Len is aware that it’s been some years – decades – since that was the case, but he can’t really bring himself to care about that right now. 

The door flies open.

Len looks up. Lewis looks up.

It’s not the police.

“Don Nicolas,” Lewis says smoothly, like he hasn’t been scornfully referring to the guy as the ‘useless pup’ for the last few hours. “How can we help you?”

Nicolas does not look well. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair is mussed, he looks like he’s been pulling at his collar. He looks like he hasn’t slept in far too long. 

“How long will it take?” he snarls at Lewis, ignoring Lewis’ question entirely.

Lewis’ eye twitches a little, but he’s made deferring to the Families the habit of a lifetime, so it wins, useless pup or not. “We still need the diamonds –”

“Here, take this,” Nicolas says, yanking off one of his cufflinks, something that glitters in the light. “I need your stupid kid to get rid of that goddamn ghost.”

Lewis looks at Len.

Len shakes his head.

Though he does wonder…he swallows a little, wetting his throat. “What ghost?” he croaks.

“The _ghost_!” Nicolas shouts, as if it should be obvious. “The ghost – that stupid _bitch_ – she’s been _haunting_ me – I need you to get rid of her. I need you to get rid of her _now_.”

Len blinks.

The slightest glimmer of an idea comes to him through the wall of shock.

_Maybe…_

Just maybe...

“Now, now,” Lewis is saying soothingly. “We’re almost there – we just need the diamonds from this heist, the _unmodified_ diamonds, and we’ll be able to resurrect your grandfather, and then we’ll take care of your ghost problem…”

“Assuming Don Tomio has time, of course,” Len adds. He keeps his voice as low and subservient as possible.

Nicolas spins to look at him. His pupils are shot. He’s on drugs, Len realizes to his disgust; not just sleeplessness. “What do you mean?” Nicolas demands.

Len sees his father turn as well and lowers his gaze to the floor. “I don’t mean anything by it,” he hedges purposefully. “I’ll be quiet. I’m sure Dad knows best; if he thinks Don Tomio is going to take time out of his schedule for taking over the Santinis once he’s been resurrected in order to deal with your ghost problem, I’m sure he’s right.”

“I’m sure…” Lewis starts, trying to be convincing, but even he can’t fake it that far – the doubt in his tone is palpable.

They all know that Tomio doesn’t respect Nicolas worth a damn. That much was patently obvious earlier, when they were interacting. 

Len shoots a glance up and sees the thoughts running across Nicolas’ face, the thoughts he _wants_ on Nicolas’ face – that Tomio doesn’t care about Nicolas’ issues. That Tomio will have more important things to focus on, once he’s alive again. Right now, Tomio is dependent on Nicolas; once he’s alive, that won’t be the case anymore. He’ll have his own followers, happy to fall back in line, terrified of his resurrection and what it might mean about Tomio’s power. 

Nicolas will get delayed time after time, his issues put on the back-burner, considered to be less important than the concerns of the _real_ players in the Family.

Just like the rest of the Family does already.

Nicolas will _never_ get his ghost issue handled.

“No,” Nicolas says, reaching the same conclusion, and pulling out a gun with a shaky hand. “No, I want my ghost issue taking care of first. _Before_ the resurrection.”

“Don Nicolas,” Lewis says, voice wheedling. “You must understand, there are some things that cannot be done so easily…”

“I want it done now!” Nicolas says, waving the loaded gun around.

This is a recipe for someone getting shot.

“What is it exactly?” Len asks.

“Be quiet,” Lewis snaps.

“No, talk,” Nicolas says. “You’re the necromancer, right?”

Len bows his head and remains silent.

Even though he’s _not_ a necromancer, damnit. And he's not a goddamn medium like Cabrera, either, for good measure. He just has a curse, that's all. 

“Make him talk!” Nicolas snaps at Lewis.

“What were you going to say?” Lewis asks. His voice threatens punishment if what Len says isn’t to his liking.

“I just wanted to know what Don Nicolas wanted done,” Len says, aiming for humble. The shocky feeling that still extends all the way through him helps, even if it's still so very hard to think clearly. “A resurrection is tough; needs the purest of diamonds. Your cufflinks, Don Nicolas, are very valuable, but they can’t be used for a resurrection – but if a major working like that ain’t the goal, then maybe it'd be enough –”

“I just want her gone!” Nicolas howls.

“I’m sure that’s a minor act,” Lewis says quickly, his eyes fixed on the gun in Nicolas’ hand. “Son, you’ll be able to do that, right?”

“If Don Nicolas can tell me more about the ghost – and all he wants is a banishment – I could probably swing it with just the cufflinks,” Len says, rushing a little, like he’s just trying to be helpful. Just trying support his Dad’s play against a madman with a gun. 

Inside, a little well of excitement forms underneath all the layers of shock that isolate Len from the world. If Lewis is going to have Len do this banishment first, Lewis will have to take the glass out of Len’s head. If Len has the glass out, he might be able to find a friendly ghost. This one – the one haunting Nicolas – they might be friendly, they might be unquiet, but either way, Len will have a chance to find someone to take a message to Mick and Lisa. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll pass on the message with his Dad watching him like a hawk the entire time, but he _has_ to.

His soul might depend on it.


	18. 17

“It’s this stupid bitch,” Nicolas says, not for the first time. He's rambling; Len blames the drugs. He hates drugs. He hates the Family. He's starting to really hate Nicolas, pathetic waste of space that he is. “Some punk rocker whore, came back to the hotel and started making a fuss when we got down to business, you know? So we killed her. No harm, no foul, right? Body never found. But that wasn’t how it happened.”

Typically wasn’t, with ghosts.

“And now she’s back, that fucking _bitch_ ,” Nicolas continues. Len really wishes he's use another word. There are so many, but Nicolas' vocabulary is clearly not capable of fitting in more than four words at a time. If Lewis wouldn't break his jaw for it, Len might've suggested some alternatives. “She’s fucking haunting me all the _fucking_ time, makes it so I can’t sleep, playing her goddamn music at me, threatening to kill me – _throwing_ things at me – says it’s my fault she never made it big –”

Len freezes, that little hope from earlier flaring up to full force. 

No.

It can’t be.

He can’t be this lucky.

It can't be her - can it?

“What hotel?” Len asks, all causal. “Something fancy, I guess – the Hilton?”

“No!” Nicolas shouts. “That stupid fucking bed and breakfast old man Alfonso used to run in his spare time, the one where all the Santini guys took their hook-ups. He’d clean up after if there was ever any problem, but he had to shut it down after a bunch of accidents or whatever.” 

It _is_ her.

Deena Nicholls. 

Rocker chick with a guitar, as Lisa fondly called her; savage haunting that killed eight people over five years in some bed and breakfast somewhere, Len can't even remember where, before coming home with Len after he'd had to stop her. Len had calmed her down, explained the purpose of that particular bed and breakfast as a Santini Family hot-spot; that it wasn’t a serial killer luring people back to that hotel, that it was some Santini asshole who’d raped and killed her before she got her big break. He'd broken into the police headquarters for her, showed her the police reports, and she'd gone off with a smile and a renewed sense of purpose to hunt down and haunt her murderer.

Looks like she found him. 

Friendly Deena. 

_Powerful_ Deena.

She might be able to get a message to Mick. Barry certainly didn't seem to be getting the hint. 

“I mean, I'm pretty sure I can banish her for you,” Len offers. “If you’d like.” He cuts his eyes towards his dad. “If Dad thinks that’s wise, of course.”

“Don Tomio won’t be happy with this,” Lewis warns. He's scowling: he's not happy with this, either. He's not quite gotten to the point where he thinks Len is manipulating him - Len would be on the ground with a broken nose by now if he did - but he's not happy. 

“I need the ghost _gone_ ,” Nicolas says. “Right away.”

Len looks between the two. Nicolas isn’t particularly strong willed, for all that he's got a gun, and Lewis is clearly contemplating just overruling him. Time to seem helpful but actually not be.

“Dad’s right,” he says. “Maybe we should ask Don Tomio first.”

They both pale at that, just like he'd hoped. He remembered Don Tomio's so-called 'management style', consisting primarily of terrified underlings who hated him. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Lewis says hastily.

“Cabrera says he can’t bring him in that often,” Nicolas adds, equally hasty. 

Len shrugs. "Up to you," he says. "Sending her away shouldn't be that much time. But we don't want to mess up the diamond heist."

"My son has a point," Lewis says.

Nicolas's hands are shaking around the gun, and his finger is on the trigger. That's just terrible trigger discipline, and also a sign of how on edge he is. God, but Len hates drugs, and he hates drugged up mobsters with guns even more. "You saying can't do it?"

"After all, the heist tomorrow – " Len says innocently.

"Tomorrow! You can get rid of that bitch _today_ , and still get your diamonds tomorrow, and Don Tomio'll never know," Nicolas exclaims. 

Lewis is frowning, angry, but Len is looking down at the ground, avoiding his eyes and hopefully his notices. He doesn't want to tip off his dad that he has something in mind. Better to let him think that Len is still his obedient son – a role Len has played for so long whenever he's around Lewis that it's become almost second nature, no matter how he hates to admit it.

Len knows Lewis won't want to take him off the leash for too long, but even a small chance is worth it. Lewis almost certainly doesn't know exactly what powers Len has, as seen by his request for ingredients for a ritual; Lewis never bothers to learn anything but the surface details for any plan. That's why they always fail.

Len can't afford for this plan to fail. Not with Lisa at stake.

He shudders, the images playing in his mind again, Jacobsen screaming, his head - no. Not Lisa. Not – not like that, not his fault. If she dies, he doesn't know what he'll do.

If it were natural causes or some accident, where she died whole and without regret, where she passed on – he would never disturb her happiness for himself. He would mourn, he would _grieve_ , but Lisa has always had first priority over everything and all ghosts want to pass on, so he'd accept it.

He likes to believe he would, anyway.

But if she died, was _murdered_ , and it was _his fault_ – 

He’s not sure he could handle that with anywhere near as much grace.

"Fine," Lewis says abruptly, stepping forward so he's behind Len, the two of them facing Nicolas. A united front, or so it appears. "We'll help you with your ghost problem, Don Nicolas."

Len shudders again. His plan is working so far, but does he dare risk it? If he summons Deena and she reveals that it's a plan, his dad will be even more angry - and that could mean risk to Lisa - 

He has to try. He can't just give in now. He _has_ to try. 

He wonders for a moment how his dad plans to get the glass out.

That moment stretches out for an eternity. 

When Len wakes up – and he never remembered falling asleep – he does so full of anxious dreams and nausea and the blessed cacophony of a hundred thousand chittering ghosts, the background beat of his life – so familiar, so accustomed, that he'd never realized it was there. It's muted, still, but it's there. 

Len can feel the tears fill his eyes, entirely involuntarily. He never knew how much he missed it, missed the ghosts, missed all of it, until it was very nearly gone.

Ice cold water splashes on his face.

Len gasps awake, his eyes flying open.

"Time to join us, son," Lewis says from the driver's seat of the car. His hand's in his pocket.

The detonator. 

No!

Len can't let that happen.

“What?” he croaks.

“You didn’t need to be awake,” Lewis says with a shrug. 

Len nods, accepting that. It’s hardly the first time Lewis has controlled his sleep patterns – he used to enjoy waking Len up randomly at night, until Len was so tired during the day that everything seemed to go wrong, until he was reduced to begging his dad for the privilege of sleeping uninterrupted, all the while apologizing for his failures to accomplish basic tasks for sheer exhaustion. This isn't new. 

His skull still hurts, a sharp pinching feeling, now, rather than the ache it had faded to before.

And he can’t stop the surge of joy in his heart, because he can hear them. He can hear the ghosts.

Muted, but there. It's _there_.

"The ghosts – it’s dulled," he says, looking at his dad, who looks satisfied. 

"You said it was easy," Lewis says. "So you won't need full power for it."

Len bows his head. He won't disagree that it would be easier if he did have full power, but his plan – as much of a plan as he could cobble together in those few desperate moments – doesn't require full power.

All it requires is a ghost, a smart ghost, a savage haunting with power of her own, and a sweet and helpful nature to boot, and him having access to her for just long enough to pass on a message.

"Where can I find your ghost?" Len asks Nicolas, who is drumming his fingers anxiously on the window of the passenger side of the car.

"Can't you just summon her?”

"Do you know her name? If I had her name..."

"I never learned the stupid bitch's _name_!"

"Then take me to where I can find her."

Nicolas drives them to –

"Your ghost haunts the same bed and breakfast where you want to resurrect Don Tomio," Len says flatly. He’d forgotten that. 

"That doesn't seem like the wisest course, Don Nicolas," Lewis adds in the same tone.

It makes Len's skin crawl to agree with his dad about anything, but – seriously?

If Cabrera is around, that will make Len's job all the harder. He'll, if _Tomio_ is around, even purely in ghost form, that's not better; Len might not be able to stop him from figuring out what's up.

You don’t get to be head of the Santini mob because you’re an idiot.

"Let me see if anybody's in," Lewis says, getting out of the car. "If that's good with you, Don Nicolas," he adds off-handedly. He doesn't wait for an answer.

"Why didn't you have Cabrera do the banishment?" Len asks, in part to distract Nicolas from Lewis' act of rudeness. But only in part.

Nicolas' face twists in rage. "That’s why I went and _got_ the stupid fucker," he says. "But he says he only does possessions and shit."

"Worked out for Don Tomio's plans but not yours, huh?" Len says, aiming for that vaguely sympathetic but mostly indifferent tone that felons use with each other. Actual sympathy is greeted with suspicion, but Len's found that poisonous words slipped into statements that seem off-hand and impromptu work much better.

Nicolas says nothing, but his lips grow tighter. 

"Must suck," Len adds airily, looking out the window. "Always being back of the line."

That sets something off.

"Not today," Nicolas says, more to himself than Len. "Not fucking today. Today I'm gonna get what I want. Get rid of that fucking bitch once and for all, and then I'm gonna celebrate with a shit ton of blow and hookers, and _then_ the great Don Tomio gets what he wants. _He_ can wait in line for once in his fucking life. Afterlife, whatever. And once he's back, he'll get back to the top, with me at his side and I'll never have to be back-of-the-line-Nico ever again."

Len says nothing. Nicolas is as primed as he's going to get – he will literally kill Lewis if he tries to stop them now, which Lewis will undoubtedly recognize. Len's going to get his chance to talk to Deena.

Of course, he thinks Nicolas' dreams are about as realistic as unicorns that reproduce via spontaneous rainbow explosions, but he's not going to be the one to point out that the odds of a ruthless shark like Don Tomio keeping dead weight like Nicolas by his side just because he helped him in a tight spot wouldn't be accepted by any sane bookie. Hell, it's far more likely that Nicolas will be the first casualty of Tomio's return – Tomio wouldn't want too many people alive who know his secret. Nicolas'll probably get a bullet to the back of the head, or maybe some poison that'll put him to sleep first - the privilege of being family. 

Lewis might last longer, as the one holding Len's leash, but Len suspects that a few months of living high will loosen Lewis' tongue, and then Tomio will know what strings to pull to make Len jump and then Lewis, too, will be unnecessary.

Len will live, assuming he survives the resurrection process – which he doesn't know, since he's never done it or seen it done or even _heard_ of it getting done. But even if he survives, it won't be a life worth living. That much he knows for sure. 

Lewis returns. "Cabrera's out at a bar, helping himself to some of your wealth, Don Nicolas," he says, not without some disgust. Len knows Lewis’ own history, so he knows how hypocritical that statement is. Not that he’d ever say so aloud. "He won't be able to assist."

He means interfere - and he's more worried about Tomio than Cabrera.

"Will Don Tomio be disturbed by the banishing?" Nicolas asks Lewis, assuming for some reason that he’s the expert simply because he holds the leash.

"Son, why don't you answer that one?" Lewis says, as if he'd know what to say. 

"I doubt it," Len says. "Ghosts want –" _life_ "—more attention, not less. If I was summoning, even if I wasn't summoning them, that'd get their attention. But banishing? They don't like banishing."

It's not true, of course. Insofar as Len does actual ‘workings’, which is to say really trying hard to do something ghost-related, anything Len does, ghosts are attracted to him. They don’t care whether he’s pulling or pushing. It’s his life they want and they want it in any way that they can get it, especially the unquiet dead like Tomio. 

But Len's not planning on doing any workings – summoning, banishing, whatever. Not that he knows how to do those anyway. 

No, Len just wants to talk.

They all troop inside, and Lewis' hand is on the detonator. Len can't help but glance over every few minutes, even though he knows it only makes his dad smirk at him. Even though he knows it’s useless. Even if Len could get the detonator away from Lewis, Lewis will have a back-up plan, and that back-up plan is guaranteed to be bloodier than the original plan.

It always is.

Nicolas leads them to a room. Not the same one as Tomio was in earlier; this is one of the bedrooms upstairs, with no real furniture but the bed.

Lewis gets Len to haul in two chairs for him and Nicolas. Len, of course, gets to stand or sit on the bed.

Len has a long-standing rule about not sitting on beds next to Family men. The rule's long since lost its actual utility, now that Len's gotten himself a reputation and proven that he's more valuable as an asset than a plaything, but it's a rule. Len needs all the structure he can get right now. His self-control is shakier than he’d like.

"This is the room?" he asks Nicolas.

"This is it," Nicolas says. His eyes are shifting from side to side rapidly, and he's sweating like a pig. He knows that the ghost – that _Deena_ – is coming for him. 

Fucker never even bothered to learn her name. Not when he raped and killed her and left her body for the hotel maids to clean up. Not after she started killing people in search of him. Not even when she started haunting him.

Len hates him, raw and visceral. Asshole'd better _hope_ he doesn't stick around a ghost after Tomio knocks him off. 

"How long ago did she die?" Len asks, even though he knows.

"Fuck. Something like – five years ago? Yeah. Five years ago."

"Do your thing, son," Lewis says. "But don't even _think_ of summoning that dead partner of yours, or anyone else, either. You go outside what’s been agreed, and, well…” He smiles. His hand is in his pocket. He doesn't need to say anything more. 

Len nods, compliant. His heart cries out for Mick, but his brain knows better. His brain is as cold and calculating as Lewis could possibly want him to be.

“I need the diamonds,” he says, and Nicholas gives them to him.

Len putters around, putting them in the four corners of the room and mumbling nonsense over them for a minute or so. When he sees his dad starting to look restless, he straightens up again. “They’re primed to go,” he announces. 

That seems to assuage his dad’s suspicion for a little longer.

If Len’s going to convince his dad that they need the big diamond for Tomio’s resurrection, he’s _really_ got to sell this. 

Good thing Len's always been a drama queen. 

He puts the diamonds in the center of the room and kneels in front of them, then he uses a knife – produced by Nicholas – to prick the base of his hand (not his finger or palm, he’s not an idiot) and get a bit of blood he can rub the diamonds in before putting them back down.

“My life calls to yours,” Len says, as ominiously as he can, and that part’s even the truth. 

He can see his dad straighten a little. He looks almost impressed.

He holds his hands over the diamonds, and thinks, _Please let this work_. 

"I want to see the ghost who died here five years ago, and none other," Len says, taking care to enunciate clearly, and thinks as hard as he can: _Deena. Deena Nicholls. Come here._

He's not sure if it's the words or the thoughts, but there's a shiver of air and slowly – far too slowly – Deena begins to coalesce before him. 

The first ghost he's seen since the start of this whole nightmare.

He nearly sobs with relief.

But he can’t. He needs to be cold if he’s going to pull off a trick like this under Lewis’ nose.

She's speaking, but she's not yet audible. It's irrelevant – Lewis might've taught Len to read lips, but Lewis' eyes have gotten old, and he doesn't bother with it anymore, considers it a waste of time, and Len would bet money Nicolas never bothered to learn it in the first place.

"Where the fuck have you been?" she's saying, voiceless. "Mick has been on, like, a rage bender –"

"Silence, restless spirit!" Len says, as loudly as he can. 

Deena's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, but she falls quiet as she slowly becomes more and more visible.

Next part of the plan: there's no way for Len to tell her to tip Mick off, not without Lewis figuring it out. Deena's a smart one; she'll know to tell Mick anyway. So what he tells Deena has to _be_ the message, while also sounding something like a proper banishment.

The important question, which Len had been pondering the whole way here, is what the message should be.

He thinks he's got an idea. 

“I call upon you, spirit,” he says, lifting his hands. No particular reason beyond the recommendation of a street magician he met once, that people focus on what you do with your hands if you move them around. “I call upon your name.”

Her eyes widen a little.

"Your name," he says, pretending to concentrate. "Your name is – your name is Deena Nicholls. Speak if this is true, but say no more."

"It is true," she says, and says nothing else. Well, aloud, anyway. Her eyebrows are doing a hell of a lot of talking. Most of that talking is insulting and/or questioning Len’s sanity.

"I have your name," he says. "Your name is mine. You will listen to me, and obey me, and – " all that crap he never went in for because he is _not a goddamn necromancer_ "- do as I say."

Len can see the intense amounts of sarcasm on her face, but it's starting to war with increasing amounts of worry. This is, after all, incredibly out of character for him.

"You know who I am," he says, catching her eyes with his own. "You know what I can do."

"I do," she says. "I hear and will obey." Her voice is monotonous and her eyes stare dully at him; he would worry that he's accidentally done something to her, except her hands are slightly raised before her, arms straight ahead.

Zombie pose.

Yesssss, master.

Not the first time Deena's made that joke.

Goddamn haunted houses, bane of Len's life; Len's never been so happy that they exist. 

"I order you, Deena Nicholls," he says, eyes still fixed on hers, hoping against hope that she'll understand what he means. "To leave this place. I order you to leave this man. I order you to go away _as fast as you can_ , to the place where knowledge lies and peace may be had."

Clunky as all hell, but hopefully it'll do.

Deena's eyes narrow just the tiniest little bit in thought, then widen in understanding.

_Please let that have worked_ , Len begs in his thoughts.

"I will go," she says. "I’ll go away _as fast as I can_."

"As it was said, let it be done," Len says, figuring that's as good an ending as any. Sounds nice and traditional.

( _Traditionally_ , Len banishes particularly irritating ghosts by saying 'shoo!' at them until they leave. Sometimes he tries to wave a broom at or through them. Nine out of ten ghosts agree that this is incredibly annoying and will flounce off in a huff.)

And then she's gone.

Len can only hope that the message made it through without tipping off Lewis.

"She's gone?" Nicolas breathes. "She's _gone_?"

Len feels something prick his shoulder. A sedative, undoubtedly; he doubts he'll be awake much longer. But that's good; that means Lewis wants him back under control. Lewis thinks he's finished the job. Lewis doesn't realize what the message was.

_Mick – go to Barry. He'll know what you need to know to help me. And please – please_ , help me.

The world goes black.


	19. 18

Len wakes up back at the warehouse. 

His eyes hurt, his head aches, and everything is quiet again; he’s not sure how exactly Lewis is doing the impromptu surgeries required for the glass implant, but he doesn’t really want to know, either. If he survives, he’ll probably have to get tested for infection. 

He hopes that Mick got his message, but he wouldn't know; he can't see or hear a damn thing.

Len officially hates glass.

If he gets out of here, he's going to go smash in a few windows, _just because_. Mick will help.

Len needs to not think of Mick right now.

Of course, he didn't send much more than a disguised plea for help. What will Mick even _do_? Len's the planner, usually, and he's all out of ideas. Sadly, it's not that unusual around his dad. Sheer terror does that.

He's learned to force himself to plan out heists despite that horrible freezing terror, but rescuing himself from his father before he gets forced to resurrect a violent ghost wasn't really a situation he'd encountered before.

"Time to get cracking, son," Lewis says cheerfully. "You've slept all night, and we still have to plan out the rest of that break in."

Len nods and staggers into a standing position.

"Don't forget to get us the remaining things we need," Lewis reminds him. "Gear, the tech guy, all of that."

Len nods again.

His head hurts and he feels sick and sluggish, probably the remnants of improperly applied anesthetics – or at least rohypnol, if his dad didn't much care about the pain caused but didn't want Len forming short term memories of it – still coursing through his system. It makes gathering up things difficult. There's plenty to arrange: his gun he has, but he still needs to gather up new guns of the old-fashioned variety for his dad, key cards to pass front desk security (just a pick-up, thankfully – Lewis apparently arranged it last night while Len was sleeping off some surgery), some spare uniforms, the trash can to hide the equipment...

Shit. They still need a new tech guy. Alternatively, Len might be able to get through the door using the cold gun, but he'd been planning on using it on the lasers and he doesn't want to run down the charge –

"Snart!"

Len blinks.

That's – Barry.

Not Mick.

Why is _Barry_ here?

His brain is moving slow, so he just stares for a long moment.

"Barry," he says, almost uncertainly. Has he started hallucinating or something?

"Wow," Barry says, studying him. "Deena was right, you look like crap."

No, that delicacy and tact could only belong to Nora's boy.

"What are you doing here, Barry?" Len asks. His message must have gone awry; Deena must have gone straight to Barry instead of to Mick. Barry was supposed to _tell_ Mick what was going on, and then Mick was supposed to come get him. Barry was not supposed to be here.

At least Barry doesn't seem to hold a grudge about last time, which is more than Len expected.

"We know about Lisa," Barry says. “I know your dad put a bomb in her, too. He told you he’d kill her if you didn’t help him, right?”

Len nods a little jerkily. That’s – they _know_. He doesn't know how they know, but they know. That’s infinitely better than he might have hoped.

“Caitlin and Cisco are working on getting it out,” Barry assures him.

Len has to close his eyes for a brief moment. Lisa. Lisa will be safe. Caitlin and Cisco – they’re good, they’re really good. They haven’t failed yet.

Visons of Lisa staggering, hand flying to her head as she moans in pain flash before his eyes. Now, at last, there’s a chance that that future won’t happen –

But he can’t risk angering his dad with any refusals, not until he gets confirmation that the bomb is out.

“Why’re you here, then?” he asks again. "If it ain't done?"

“To tell you that we're working on it,” Barry says promptly. “And also to tell you –”

“I hope you’ve got that gun of yours ‘cause –” Lewis says, walking back into the room, then stops, his eyes narrowing as he catches sight of Barry. His hand dips down into his pocket and Len tenses up. “Who the hell’s this?”

“Um,” Barry says. 

Len is frozen, staring at his dad's hand like it's snake. He needs to think of something - some excuse - some reason for Barry to be here - something - 

Barry plasters on a big smile and says, “Well, uh, Lenny said you needed new tech. What’s up, I’m Sam –”

"Son, you brought him in?" Lewis asks, sounding skeptical, which Len can't blame him for. What is Barry _thinking_? And how'd he know they needed new tech - wait, no, Barry's a CSI. They must've found the body Len dumped yesterday. “You telling me you think this kid can crack a Draycon keypad?”

"Sure," Barry says, still grinning like an idiot. "I did help Snart steal the Kanhdaq Dynasty Diamond from Central City Museum last year, and that big boy was locked up behind an AmerTek Industries Phase Three Suppression Door with a Draycon XL-1218 keypad. No problemo. Zero sweat."

Oh, God. Barry's impression of a criminal, assuming that's what he's doing, is...painful, that's what it is. Sure, he wanted a reason for Barry to be there, but this means that Lewis will want Barry in on the heist. And now both Barry and Lewis are looking at Len to confirm or deny Barry's story. 

Len thinks letting Barry join in is an utterly terrible idea, but it's too late for that now. Lewis has seen Barry's face. Barry can't flash away now without revealing his identity, and now that he’s in – well. Len’s not the only one who thinks the only way out is in a box. There's no way for Barry to pull out without a bullet. 

"Couldn't have done it without him," Len lies, giving the confirmation that they were both, for separate reasons, expecting. 

Lewis studies Barry skeptically. “You sure you can do it?”

"Man, Draycon’s my _jam_." Barry pauses a second, then adds, "Yo."

Len closes his eyes in pained second-hand embarrassment. 

Oddly, that seems to be what convinces Lewis of Barry's authenticity. Maybe he has enough faith in Len’s ability to select personnel to think that Len would only tolerate such an idiot if he was actually good at what he was doing. 

"Okay," Lewis says. "One test, and we can gear up. Let’s go."

"Right now?!" Barry yelps. He was clearly hoping for more time.

“You got a problem with that?”

“Uh, no. All good. Can’t wait.”

"Yeah, same," Lewis says, and smashes a piece of wood into Barry's arm, knocking him down on the ground.

"Dad!" Len exclaims, unable to stop himself.

"What?" Lewis asks, smirking at Len.

"He – he uses that arm to crack the security systems," Len says. It’s a feeble response, but he can’t let his father know he cares about anything other than the job. Certainly not that he cares for any _one_ ; that just makes them into a weapon Lewis can use against him. See what he's done with Lisa, and she's his daughter - he wouldn't have any restraint when it came to Barry. “Doesn’t make sense to fuck his arm up right before a job.”

"Yeah, what the _hell_ , man?" Barry asks, rubbing his arm. 

"Sorry about that," Lewis says, insincere as always. "Just needed to be sure you're, ah, _solidly_ with us. Test over; won't need to do it again." He looks at both of them. "Gear up. We're heading out."

And he turns and leaves in the direction of the garage, probably to go get the car because he doesn't trust Len with it alone right now. 

"Okay, but seriously, what the hell was that?" Barry repeats, looking at Len. “He’s nuts. Is he nuts?”

Len shakes his head. He understands his dad; he always did, far too well. Lewis is as sane as they come; it's just that he's an absolute bastard. He crouches down beside Barry, pretending to be helping him up. "He thought you were a ghost," he murmurs, keeping his voice low just in case his dad looks back at them. "Needed to check you weren't."

"But Mick –"

"That's just Mick, and he knows what Mick looks like. You know what I can do – the criminal underworld doesn't. So just play cool for now, since you've gone and gotten yourself stuck yourself into this. You can't back out until the job's done. Where _is_ Mick, anyway? I was..."

Len trails off. How to say 'hoping to see him and not you' politely? Hell, it’s not even that Mick is notably more useful than Barry with his super-speed, Barry’s clearly the more valuable asset here, but damnit, he wants _Mick_. Even aside from his power and his strength, Mick makes Len feel grounded, makes him less afraid, lets him _think_ again. He’d be able to figure out a way out of this, if he had Mick by his side.

"That's what I was trying to say earlier!" Barry exclaims. "He _can't_ come – he tried, he's been trying, but there's something around this area that ghosts can't enter."

"There's _what_?"

"Well, it's not that they can't so much as they really, really don't want to? Like, most ghosts hit the area and just nope out – Mick spent a decent bit of effort aiming to get to you, before we convinced him you wouldn't want that – "

"I _don't_ want that," Len says immediately. Without Len to replenish him, Mick could fade away – in a thousand years or so, given how much life Len’s already given him, but _still_. He’d fade away a lot quicker if he spent it all on stupid shit like trying to get through some sort of anti-ghost force field. 

What the _hell_. Something Cabrera did, maybe? Sure, Len thought that mediums mostly went into for possessions and summonings and banishments and whatnot, but what does Len know about how mediums work? 

"And, like, it moves around? The anti-ghost area. It's one of the ways we were able to figure out where you were: the zone went out of here some ways, then came back, and we figured you had to be in the area because no ghost could find you, and that was the only area without ghosts. Even ghosts who are located in a given area just run away when the field comes close. No one wants or can be anywhere in the area."

Len frowns. That doesn’t sound like it could be Cabrera; he was holed up in the hotel the whole time, didn’t even know about where they were moving or where they were located. Lewis? No - if Lewis had something like that, he would have bragged about it already…

"Sooo, we were wondering if you knew what was up? If it's some sort of anti-ghost tech, maybe a meta or a whatever-it-is you are..."

"No," Len says, closing his eyes in pain as the realization hits him. It’s not Cabrera. "It's me."

"You?"

"Me," Len says, opening his eyes again and looking at Barry. "I'm trying to protect myself. Sub-consciously."

"What do you mean?"

"My dad figured out a way to - to -" Len can't say it. "Listen, I can't see or hear ghosts right now."

"Wait, what? You mean, like, at all?"

"At all. He reduced it to let me talk to Deena - tell her not to come back until the job's done, by the way -"

"She figured; it's cool, don't worry."

"—and then he put it back.” Len opts to omit the details, since they still turn his stomach. “So I can't do anything with ghosts right now. See, talk, hear..."

"Ouch."

"Way I figure it, that includes the unquiet dead."

"Oh, crap. That’s bad."

"No kidding. I've been worrying about it for a while. So if I had to guess, I'd probably say that I'm unconsciously repelling all ghosts as an act of self-defense. Which means that Mick – or anyone else – can't come help me."

Len always was the best at fucking things up for himself. Better than anyone.

Though Tomio _had_ managed to come through – but that was only because he was being summoned by Cabrera. Looks like Len can only repel ghosts to a certain point, and that point ends where Cabrera’s power begins. 

Great.

"Deena says it took you a long time to even hear her," Barry says, nodding. "And that you were acting super weird. But now that I know that, I'll text Cisco; he'll tell the rest. We'll have to keep this rescue mission living-only."

"Lisa..."

"We're working on it."

Len nods. He can't let Lisa be hurt. 

"So, your dad's after diamonds?"

"No, he wants me to resurrect a Santini Don known for ruthlessness and torture," Len says dryly. "We're getting the diamonds as a part of that."

Barry blinks. It's a testament to his time as a superhero that he just accepts it and processes it. "Okay, I'll go with that. But - what do diamonds have to do with..?"

"Nothing, really. I was just buying time." Len's mental clock pings. Lewis will be expecting them to have finished by now. "And we're out of it. Get dressed and meet me in the car."

Barry changes in a swirl of crackling light, gathers the things as Len instructs, and they meet Lewis out front before he can start to get suspicious.

Dressed as janitors, they head into the building. Barry is surprisingly helpful, especially when the keycards Lewis obtained fail to work and he reaches for his gun, only for Barry to small talk their way through the security desk.

"Maybe I _should_ become a Rogue," he gleefully tells Len in an undertone with a grin.

Len rolls his eyes.

He does feel better, having an ally by his side, even if it's not Mick. Even if Barry can't use his powers in front of Lewis.

Well, sort of not use his powers, anyway. Barry breaks the lock by virtue of trying every combination of the safe in under a minute, but luckily Lewis is on watch duty, as, technically, is Len, so the little sparking blur of Barry’s hands doesn’t get spotted. 

"Boom!" Barry crows when it clicks open. “ _Told_ you Draycon was my jam!”

Len can't help a faint smirk. Barry's morals aren't anywhere near as good as he likes to think they are – the joy of victory sometimes makes him forget that he just committed breaking and entering. Really, Len will have to take advantage of that one day. 

"Nice job, Sam," Lewis says, nodding for Len to go ahead of him, which Len does, reaching for his cold gun for the next part of the proceedings. "Good to go out on a high note."

Len's blood runs cold and he spins around, only for it to be too late. Lewis has his gun out and even as Len tries to reach for him, he fires.

Barry spins from the impact and falls.

Len stares in horror. He wants to check the body; he wants to see if Barry managed to use his speed to evade it, somehow, without any lightning; he wants –

"Move it, son," Lewis barks.

– he wants not to be here anymore. 

But Lewis still has Lisa.

"Sorry, Barry," he whispers, and follows Lewis.

The cold gun freezes the lasers without difficulty, as expected, and Lewis cracks the safe. It takes him two minutes longer than he boasted it would, which means the alarm resets and goes off. 

Len doesn't care. Maybe the police will put an end to this. Maybe they'll shoot their way out. He doesn't know.

God, he hopes the STAR Labs crew has figured out how to get the bomb out of Lisa.

"Got them," Lewis says with satisfaction, pouring the diamonds into a bag. "Let's get out of here."

Len follows mutely.

But then there’s the Flash. 

Len has never been so happy to see that stupid outfit in his life. 

“Only place you’re going is back to Iron Heights, Lewis,” Barry says with all his usual superhero bravado.

He must have caught the bullet without letting off any lightning sparks that could give him away. Thank God. 

Lewis sneers. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Shoot him, son.”

Len hesitates. If he freezes Barry, even only from the waist down, Lewis will know better than to think the ice will finish the job this time around; he’ll put one right in Barry’s head, just to be sure.

Lewis scowls at Len's hesitation and pulls out the detonator. “Kill him," he growls, "or you’ll never see your sister alive again.”

Len lifts up his cold gun and aims it at Barry.

He still hesitates. He doesn’t want to do this – he _likes_ Barry, for all that the kid’s a dumbass superhero. They’re – friends, maybe, if Len remembered what it was like to have those. He doesn't want to kill him. 

He hesitates long enough, enough time for Barry to get away if he ran, but Barry’s not running; Barry’s – listening?

_Why is Barry not running?!_

“Son…”

Len knows that tone. He knows that warning. 

He can’t risk Lisa.

Not even for Barry.

Len raises the gun again, and this time, this time he’s going to do it, this time he’s going to fire, he’s going to – 

“Bomb’s out!” Barry exclaims, hand on his ear where the transmitter to his team is. “Lisa’s safe!”

Len’s shoulders go slack with relief.

Safe. 

She's _safe._

He’s overcome with relief, numbed by it, still numbed by whatever sedatives Lewis gave him earlier, slow to understand, slow to feel, slow to react.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move fast enough.

“Maybe my daughter is,” Lewis says, realizing what's going on the same second Len did but reacting differently, his face twisting into an ugly sneer, rage overtaking all common sense the way it always does when he’s crossed. “But my traitorous son isn’t.”

He pushes the detonator.

Len can hear a high-pitched whine and wonders for a moment where it's coming from.

And then he has the answer, the pitch growing loud and louder, accompanied by a terrible vibration that shakes him from the inside out, like a horrific drill, right there _inside his head_ – it’s not just glass in there, not just glass to block the ghosts; he should have known better, he should have realized – fiber-optic glass, Lewis said with a smirk, right at the start, Len should have _known_ -

Len drops his gun and falls to his knees, clutching at his head, fingers pressing painfully in against his skull like he's trying to reach inside his own head to make that sound stop, that horrible high pitched sound, that vibration, unable to stop himself even though he knows what’s coming – the increasing agony – and then - soon - the explosion –

“Stop!”

Lewis flicks the switch and the plain slowly fades. Len slowly lowers his hands. His face is wet. He hopes it’s from the pain. He'd hate to find that he's somehow managed to be disappointed, again, by his dad. 

“– and if you don’t let us go, he’s dead,” Lewis is saying. Barry has his hands up, half calming, half surrender; under his suit, his eyes are wide and round and horrified. “What’s it gonna be, Flash?”

“I’ll go,” Barry says, swallowing hard. “But I’m not helping you with anything.”

“Just go,” Lewis says, sneering and then there’s a crackle of lightning and Barry’s gone, and Lewis is laughing. “Superhero my ass,” he says. “That wasn’t all that tough.”

And then he abruptly reaches out, grabs Len by the collar, and slams him face-first into the wall. Len gasps from the unexpected pain, but otherwise makes no sound; he knows that pained noises only spur his father on. “Nice one,” Lewis observes dispassionately. “Working with the Flash to save Lisa – you must’ve worked that one out when we got the blueprints, huh? Too bad it didn’t work out for you.”

Len swallows. He’s still on his knees. He _hates_ being on his knees.

“Now get up,” Lewis orders. “We’re going out.”

“The cops –” Len starts.

“Not a problem.”

Len just collects his cold gun and follows along mutely. There really is no stopping his dad. He can’t do it, Mick can’t do it, not even Barry can do it.

His only hope is that Mick and Barry can come up with something together.

“Hands up!” a cop shouts the second they step outside. “You’re surrounded.”

Len glances at Lewis, who nods.

They both raise their hands. The cops rush up to them and grab them both, handcuffing them; Len can see Barry hovering in the distance, watching, looking relieved. But Lewis seems unbothered by the whole thing, which doesn’t sit right. That means he’s got a plan.

Only question is, what is it?

“I’ll take ‘em,” one of the cops says, and the others nod and help shove Len and Lewis into the back seat of one of the cop cars, carelessly tossing their guns at their feet which is such an unbelievable breach of protocol that Len abruptly understands what's going on.

This _is_ Lewis’ plan – the part he hadn’t told Len about, of course. 

The car starts up and the two cops in front drive off – in the wrong direction for the police precinct. Or anything, really.

Anything except for the warehouse that they were in before. 

Len leans his still-aching head against the window of the back of the car, ignoring the handcuffs that bind him. 

Corrupt cops. 

Of course.

Lewis’ old favorite standby, next to violence. Len should have known.

“That should put a cork in the Flash for a bit,” Lewis says with satisfaction, and Len wishes he didn’t agree. Barry believes in the law, and in the cops, and it wouldn’t occur to him to think of corruption – at least not until he gets back to the CCPD headquarters and no one’s seen hide nor hair of either Lewis or Len. 

So it comes down to this. To Len, with the glass and the bomb in his head, and his dad, and the question of selling his soul to resurrect a man that even in life was vicious and terrible. 

“I’m not gonna do it,” Len says quietly. 

"What's that?"

"You heard me. I ain’t gonna do it. Tomio. I’m not gonna help you with him."

"Son," Lewis says. He sounds so disappointed, just the way he always does when Len doesn't go along with him. The way he does right before he shows Len exactly why he shouldn't do stupid things like disobey or speak up or – anything, really. Right before he has to teach Len another lesson.

"I don't care if you have a bomb in my head," Len says. "I really don't. Hurt me or kill me, whatever. Now that I know Lisa’s safe, you ain’t got nothing on me but myself, and that ain’t anything I’m not willing to give up to stop this stupid plan. I'm not gonna do what Tomio wants."

"He'll make us rich and powerful –"

"He'll make _himself_ rich and powerful. He'll make _you_ dead, and me a slave. I won't do it."

Lewis grunts.

Len waits for a response.

He doesn't get one. Lewis just keeps quiet the entire drive, until the cops reach the warehouse they’ve been using, stepping out to remove their handcuffs and nodding at Lewis before leaving them alone. They’re not gone, though; just hovering by the car. Giving them some privacy to talk.

Len eyes Lewis warily, but Lewis seems to be thinking of something.

"Son," Lewis finally say.

"Yes?"

Lewis turns and punches Len in the gut, more or less how Len expected he'd react, then, when Len doubles over involuntarily, backhands him in the face, knocking him to the ground.

"Never talk back to me like that again," Lewis says, his voice grating and harsh. "Now get up."

"I still ain’t doing it," Len says, picking himself up. 

"Of course you are," Lewis says. "You've had your little moment to state your piece, it's over now. You're doing it."

"Dad –"

"I'm only giving you one more chance, boy," Lewis snarls. 

"Before what? Before you hit me – _again_?" 

"Before I hand you over to Cabrera," Lewis says, and Len goes cold. Possessions and summonings and banishment, that's what mediums did, he remembers thinking that before, but that's enough of a threat by itself. "He says he had – ways. To make you behave, if I couldn't."

"How?" Len croaks. The images of that terrible blackness, spreading over Cabrera's face, crawling into his mouth, his eyes, his ears – the memory is nauseating. Could he do that to _Len_ , somehow?

"He said there's ways to deal with necromancers like you, son. Ways that they can be bound by their blood," Lewis tells him, and smiles. "That's why they need me, you see. We've got the same blood. So maybe Don Tomio won’t be knocking me off all that quick."

"I've never heard of anything like that."

"So?" Lewis asks, disinterested. "Doesn't mean it won't work. Ghosts only need so much consent, apparently; he said after a few – what'd he say – after a few _nibbles_ , you'll be begging for the chance to do the job."

"You're going to feed me to the unquiet dead," Len says, horror seeping into his voice. "Until I'm too weak to resist whatever it is Cabrera has in mind."

"You could just do it," Lewis points out. He doesn't deny that that's the plan. 

Len thinks of the resurrection, the theft of the black book, the easiest thing a necromancer can do – and the one thing they can't. The secret he kept so badly, the gift he didn't even give to Mick.

He thinks of his mother, dying on the floor, life pulled out of her piece by piece by the unquiet dead, the worst of all possible deaths to his mind, the death he's always feared most.

He thinks of his sister’s life, held by a string, a string held by this man – this man who is her father, who should love her, but doesn’t.

The man who drained the life from his mother until she didn't have the will to fight back.

The man who would sell his son to a fate he fears more than anything.

Len looks at Lewis. “No,” he says. 

Lewis sneers. "So be it," he replies, and looks to the policemen standing behind Len. "Grab him."


	20. 19

The corrupt policemen come up behind Len and grab his arms. Len could fight back, but he's tired, he's in pain, and he has no desire to see what happens when a man with glass in his skull acquaints himself with a police-issued taser. 

He spends the next few hours tied to a chair inside that filthy bed and breakfast, waiting for Cabrera to sober up.

Len spends the time thinking. 

Planning.

He's not about to go down without a fight.

He knows Barry isn't, either, nor Mick, nor his Junior Rogues. They'll track him down the same way they found him the first time around, track him even beyond his anti-ghost aura now that they know what it is, and they'll run right here, Barry with his super-speed, Jax and Wally, all of them. They'll bring some mechanism for stopping the bomb in Len's head – they got it out of Lisa, after all, somehow - and if no such mechanism exists, Cisco will invent one. Mick will find a ghost that can make it happen. Lisa will steal one. The junior Rogues will band together and figure something out. 

_Something_ will be done.

Len's sure of it.

Unfortunately, Lewis is pretty sure of it, too. Lewis has as many flaws as he has personality traits, but unfortunately he's not actually all that stupid, and he can put two and two together same as the next person, and he's already put his counter-move into action: bringing Santini thugs and hitters in by the dozen, promising to buy their drinks at the pathetic hotel bar downstairs as long as they stick around, and telling them to keep an eye out for the Flash.

Barry will need to get through them if he's going to get to Len.

If.

And that’s assuming he can get to Len in time, too. Lewis is pushing their timeline forward, as quick as he can, and Barry still needs to figure out where Len even _is_.

Len's faced worse odds in his lifetime, but he still doesn't like the way these ones look. 

He can hear Lewis shouting instructions outside the door, hurrying people along, snapping at them. Cabrera looks hungover when he comes in, which probably accounts for the scowl on his face, and in his hands he's got a bucket of something slick and dark and red already starting to look kind of brown.

"Blood?" Len asks skeptically. "Really?"

Must Len's highly-probable death be _quite_ this cliché? 

"Pig's blood," Cabrera says, and a ghastly smile splits his face. "Human's better, but people can be so picky."

Len makes a face. Not even at the idea of using human blood – crazy people with crazy rituals, what can you expect? Not enough intelligence to go swipe a blood bank or a college blood drive van, _that's_ for sure – but at the idea of pig's blood.

Len doesn't really keep kosher, except for sometimes in prison where the food tastes better that way, but his mom did and she wrinkled her nose at any suggestion of pig. 

"It's no good for nothing," she told Len. "Got nothing in it, nothing good. Pig's too close to human, too smart. Keeps itself dirty in the muck like a human. Bad luck to kill one, worse to use it. No good. Never use it."

"Use it for what?" Len asked, disinterested child already mostly distracted.

"Anything! It’s bad luck."

And Len never has, not for anything - not for heists, not for eating, and certainly not for anything related to the dead. He's never needed to, for one thing; his power has nothing to do with blood or with sacrifices or with arcane symbols like Cabrera is painting on the floor. It's all willpower – no trappings required, not as anything more than a placebo focusing aid, and he hasn't needed anything like that in ages. 

Ugh, _mediums_. Len's always heard they were crazy weird.

"What's that you're drawing?" he asks anyway, because more information is always better.

Cabrera snorts. "Your doomsday," he says, continuing to paint in the swiftly drying blood. 

"Yeah, yeah, I got that. But what is it? The circle, I mean?"

"You don't know?"

"So sue me, I'm ignorant."

"What I would give to have your power," Cabrera says almost to himself, shaking his head. "I've got a fraction of it, that’s all, barely a thimbleful while you're just overflowing. Mine, I have to boost it whenever and however I can, using all the tricks I had to beg and kill for, and you've got it all just handed to you – and you're _ignorant_. Goddamn _necromancers_. Cheaters, the whole lot of you."

“I’m not a necromancer," Len says. He feels that's important to point out. 

Cabrera snorts. “Yeah, _sure_ you’re not. You do your thing based on nothing but innate talent, where the rest of us have to slave away learning our books – you’re a necromancer for sure.”

"So tell ignorant old me," Len says, letting it go even though he doesn't really want to. Not an argument to have right now, with his time slowly ticking away. "What's the circle do? Summon ghosts?"

He knows the circle doesn't do that, since he saw no such circle earlier when Cabrera summoned Tomio's ghost – through Len's anti-ghost aura, no less. But his father’s easily goaded to answer correctly if he’s provided with a patently wrong answer, and Len’s willing to bet Cabrera’s the same.

"Don't be ridiculous," Cabrera scoffs, proving Len’s point. "This is a blood circle."

"I'd never have guessed," Len says dryly.

"Cute," Cabrera says, baring his teeth in a hacking laugh. "Very cute. This circle is used for trading – blood for blood, life for life."

"Why not use that for Tomio, then?"

Cabrera snorts. "You can't resurrect someone with a trading circle. A ghost will burn through all the years you have in a matter of _hours_ –" He looks almost gleeful at the thought. And possibly like he’s talking from experience. "- right up until there's nothing left worth keeping." 

"That why you look like chewed-up crap?" Len asks, unable to hide his disgust at the concept. "Or that just how your face is normally?"

"I'm going to enjoy seeing you get ripped to shreds from the inside," Cabrera says, quite calmly. 

Len sneers at him.

"Oh, you’re defiant _now_ , little necromancer, but it’s true. Your father's going to give willing blood, _your_ blood, and he's going to throw you open for possession by any ghost that'll have you." Cabrera's smile widens, ugly and mean. "Bet you're used to that sorta thing, though. Pretty face like yours in prison."

"Not sure how me getting possessed helps anyone," Len says. That sounds extremely unpleasant, he’s not going to lie, but losing his cool over it won't get Len out of here. "'specially if they just _kill me_ doing it. Seems like it defeats the purpose."

"The period of possession prior to your gruesome death will be long enough," Cabrera replies. "Long enough to use your power of resurrection."

"Will whatever ghost grabs me know _how_?" Len drawls. "Y’know, I think you're making a lot of promises you can't deliver on here."

Cabrera laughs and puts aside his paintbrush, standing up and coming forward, shoving his filthy face with his disgusting breath right in Len's face. "You're trying to think if there's a way out of this for you," he guesses, not incorrectly. "Sorry to tell you, my powerful little friend, but there ain't _nothing_ you can do to save yourself."

"What's in this for you?" Len asks instead. "You can't imagine Tomio will keep you around." He smirks. "Not if he can get _me_."

"He won't _have_ you," Cabrera says. " _I_ will."

"…what?"

Len doesn't like the sound of that. He _really_ doesn't like the sound of that. 

Cabrera laughs and reaches out, running his oily fingers down Len's face, his forehead, his cheek, his chin. Len turns his face as far away as he can in disgust.

"The ghosts are gonna ride you till you're all hollowed out inside," he says, sounding almost high with pleasure. "Won't be much of you left that's good for anything but saying 'yes' and 'how high' and maybe a 'please not again'; that's what Don Tomio's expecting, the foul bastard. But I ain't gonna leave him even that."

Len swallows.

"I'm gonna take you," Cabrera crows. "I'm gonna take all that power, all that strength, and I'm gonna drink it down myself, and leave you empty of _everything_. You wanna know what I'm getting out of this? I'm getting _power_. My sort of power. I’m gonna swallow you down till there’s nothing left."

“You can’t do that,” Len says – stupidly, he knows, but horror makes you say stupid things. It’s not _power_ , it’s _life_ ; you can’t steal a person’s life, not like that. Mediums may be different than whatever the hell Len is, what his mother was, but it can’t be _that_ different.

Can it?

“Oh, I can’t,” Cabrera agrees. “Only a ghost can steal like that, only a possession. But Don Tomio doesn’t want a piddly little possession. He wants to come back, however it is that you necromancers can manage the feat. So I’m going to use your dad to trade – your blood given as an offering to the ghosts for power. You get power, lots of power, the power of the damned, and it’s going to rip you apart. You’re not the only one with pet ghosts, you know – I’m gonna summon up one of my favorites, and he’s going to have his way with you, and when he’s done pulling Don Tomio out of his grave, he’s going to give me everything else he’s got from you, free and clear – and in return, I’ll let him and his precious girlfriend pass on at long last.”

“You know, I thought you couldn’t get more disgusting,” Len says. “But no, you’ve managed it. What sort of asshole keeps a ghost from passing on? That’s what a ghost is _supposed to do_.”

“Says that man carting around a ghost that’s nearly a century old,” Cabrera sniffs.

“Mick’s going to therapy for his deep-seated guilt issues,” Len says flatly. “It’s helping.”

“Make what excuses you want. You’d _never_ let a powerhouse like that go free.”

“He’ll pass when I do,” Len says, because Mick has always promised as much, white flame burning in the back of his eyes every time he says it. “Without me, he’d fade away instead of passing on. We _understand_ each other.” He sneers at Cabrera. “Even if you do pull away every last bit of life I have, Cabrera, it ain’t gonna help you. I might be ignorant, but you got no clue what you’re doing.”

Cabrera backhands him hard enough to knock the chair – and Len – to the ground. 

“You miserable little piece of filth,” he hisses at Len, his eyes abruptly wide and furious, the white showing all around the pupil. “I’ll take everything you have, everything you could _ever_ have, and we’ll see who knows what they’re doing _then_.”

A moment later and he’s calm, quiet, like he’d never been almost foaming at the mouth a second before. “But that won’t be an issue,” he says almost cheerfully. “We’re almost at the end, now. Your father’s consent is all I need.”

Len swallows. He misjudged, apparently. Cabrera’s not just power-hungry. He’s _insane_.

"We about ready to get started, Cabrera?" Lewis asks, coming inside, flanked by a handful of Santini thugs. A higher quality of thug than before – there's a few dozen downstairs drinking, but these guys, these guys are the enforcers. The wing-men, the ones that do far more than just put fist to face; these are the muscle-men of Don Tomio's Family. The ones who remain loyal to Don Tomio despite everything. Despite even death itself.

One crosses himself when he sees the blood circle.

Good Catholics come to watch a resurrection. They're uncomfortable, Len can tell, but not so much that they'll flee.

These are the men Tomio wants by his side when he moves to take over again.

Nicolas is notable primarily in his absence.

"Watch the goddamn merchandise," Lewis is bitching to Cabrera, who grins unrepentantly. "I know he can be mouthy, but he _is_ the guy resurrecting the goddamn dead here, so I'd be a bit more respectful."

One of the thugs yanks Len and his chair off the floor, sets him upright. "We getting started?" he grunts.

"The circle's almost complete – " Cabrera starts.

"I don't want almost," one of the others says. "I want now. The Don’s return must not be delayed."

He's not the biggest guy there, but he's notable for not wearing any gaudy jewelry, and for how the others defer to him. No excess for him, no; this is a blood-bound Family man. A killer who lives for his master – and who now sees a chance to serve that master again.

A fanatic.

Len _loves_ fanatics. They've got the easiest strings to pull.

"I'm finishing it," Cabrera snaps back. "Then all we have to do is the ritual, and you'll have Don Tomio back, safe and sound. Nothing to worry about."

"You need to fix me, first," Len points out. He's not doing shit for anyone with glass in his skull. 

"No," Cabrera says, when Lewis glances at him for confirmation. "Not until the possession is done. I can do that no matter what state he's in."

Lewis smirks. "You get it out once the ritual is underway," he says. "Unless you've decided to do it willingly."

"Still no," Len says. He'd rather die, and he knows very well that they've long passed the point where Lewis would believe him, anyway. There's no playing Lewis now, so Len might as well die for what he believes in.

"Then let's get started."

Cabrera is finishing the circle.

"Pity," Len says. He can’t wait any longer to see what opportunities might come. He’ll have to gamble on the fanatic. 

"What's a pity?" Lewis asks, frowning at him.

"Don Tomio, I mean. From what I get about this circle, I'm gonna get possessed by the first ghost that comes by, and then the way _my_ ritual works is that I'll resurrect the first thing I see. No way to guarantee it's the Don – I mean, we could do a possession again afterwards, but –" Len shrugs. "Well, no dice. Guess we'll have to work on faith."

"We will not work on faith," the fanatic says. "Cabrera will summon the Don first, so that we may ensure his presence during the ritual."

Cabrera's head snaps up. "But – Mr. Alvarez – I need to _perform_ the ritual!" he exclaims.

"Weren't you saying earlier that you could do both at once, if you wanted?" Lewis points out meanly. He doesn't like Cabrera. "With your eyes closed, I think you said?"

Cabrera hesitates. He clearly did say something like that - undoubtedly to earn a few more minutes to cradle his hangover. 

"Then it is agreed. We will not risk it," Alvarez says. His eyes don't look quite right - one madman to another. "This is _Don Tomio's_ grand return. It will be done, and done correctly."

"You don't understand –" Cabrera protests. "The strain of possession –"

"I don't care."

Everyone gets tense. Len doesn't see why at first, since Alvarez is behind him, but then he steps forward, and he has a knife out. A nasty one, too, a gut-splitter. You die filthy on that sort of blade. 

Alvarez holds it like a man who knows how to use it, too.

"Fine," Cabrera says, what limited courage he has failing him, and he glares at Len. "It doesn't _matter_. I'll start the ritual, then summon Don Tomio as its finishing. And then the Don will live again."

"The Don first," Alvarez says, clearly pleased by the fear of those around me. "Or else you and me, we have a chat yes?"

"Don Tomio will need me – "

"Of course," Alvarez says. "But he will need you just as well with a few less fingers and toes."

Cabrera scowls, but nods his assent. “Fine,” he says bitterly. “I’ll summon Don Tomio and my personal ghost at the same time; one will possess me, the other him. And then we’ll finally get to it. Happy?”

Alvarez nods his consent. 

Len doesn't say anything. 

Cabrera grabs his cigar. It's how he controls the possession spell; that much is clear – Don Tomio is in control of the body while the cigar is lit and keeps it until the cigar goes out, then Cabrera resumes control. Len remembers how Don Tomio looked at the burning cigar when he was in control.

He didn’t want it to go out.

The plan clicks together.

Cabrera starts chanting.

Len licks his lips. It’s going to be close.

He sets his mental timer.

Lewis steps forward when Cabrera gestures, takes the knife and cuts himself, lets it drip onto the dried blood of the circle. "I give this blood willingly, for power," he recites, eyes sliding to Cabrera for confirmation. "Take the man within this circle, blood of my blood, for your use."

Sloppy. So sloppy. 

"Now I see why the pigs' blood was appropriate," Len says, staring at his dad. "Once a pig, always a pig, huh?"

Lewis' face twists with rage and he steps forward – he's angry, he's going to come hurt Len for daring to speak to him like that – and then Cabrera shoves a hand in front of him. "Don't break the circle," he says. "That's his plan. He's desperate to get out of this. If you step into the circle, you are the man within the circle, and your blood is the same; you will be victim as well."

Lewis is torn for a moment, between his possessive rage and his self-preservation instincts. It's a struggle, but at last the latter wins and he defers to expertise, stepping backwards once more.

Len says nothing. Good thing that _wasn't_ his plan.

Though it would've been nice to see Lewis get what was coming to him.

Cabrera returns to his ritual, but his rhythm is off, disrupted by Lewis. Len's said enough prayers to know that once they're engrained in your mind, it's instinct to start at the beginning, not the middle, and it's hard to pick up where you left off. Cabrera's spells seem to be working the same way, and he's stumbling just the slightest bit.

He’s lighting the stub of the cigar, just as before, leaving the majority of it on the floor next to him.

Cabrera's afraid, just as he always is, now that he's including himself as the host for Don Tomio. Len noticed it earlier – the slightest pause, the merest hesitation, before Cabrera says the name. He's afraid of Don Tomio, and even when he doesn't mean to, he pauses before committing himself to the summoning.

"And so to this place, to this time, I call upon you, restless spirits of the dead. I call upon you, the two spirits whom I name, you who wish to come to this place. I call upon thee by name -" Cabera is saying, as grandly as a miserable little man like him can manage. "I call upon thee –” And he pauses again, just that hairs-breath of hesitation that Len was counting on. “Thomas Antonio Salvatore Santini – "

As soon as Cabrera starts with the first name, Len speaks as well, matching his inflection.

"Michael," he says as quietly as he can manage. "Michael Christopher Sebastian Rory."

"— and also –" Cabrera begins, but it's too late.

Len might have glass in his head, unable to access his own power, but as he’s already seen, Cabrera’s summoning spells work just fine through Len’s ghost-repelling aura. Cabrera’s summoning ritual, modified by Alvarez’s insistence, called for two dead souls who wanted to come here, to this place. 

Cabrera probably thought that that would safely limit it to the souls he had waiting, Don Tomio and his pet ghost, since who else would know to want to come here?

He would be right, too, if Mick didn't know where this place was. If Mick didn’t desperately, overwhelmingly, want to come to this place to rescue Len, stopped only by Len’s own repulsion of all ghosts from this place. 

Cabrera might have been more specific if he'd known about the risk, but Lewis never told Cabrera that they'd been found. He wouldn't have, and Len knows it – Lewis never admits that his plans have gone wrong, even when it’s obvious that they have. 

So Mick knows where they are – and he wants to come to Len’s side. He wants to be _here_.

And anti-ghost aura or no, Cabrera's summoning and possession spells work just fine.

The room fills with wind.

Cabrera's eyes go wide but it's too late – the blackness, the filth of Don Tomio Santini's soul, is running up his face, into his mouth, smothering the one person who realizes what Len's done.

Len braces himself for the crawling blackness himself, expects it, even, but –

Mick's soul isn't black.

All he's done as a ghost is not on his soul, but on his spirit; his soul's fate was written when he died at fifteen, victim to impulses he did not understand, an accident that gave him such guilt that he refused to pass on but for which he is not truly at fault.

Mick’s soul is a breeze, a rolling wave of lightness like the first day of spring.

Len is not smothered, forced down and silent. He is surrounded. He is loved.

_Boss?_ Mick asks, voice ringing inside Len's head, clear as a bell. _No offense but – what the_ hell?

Len has never been more relieved in his life.

_I am so happy to see you_ , Len replies, finding himself incapable of using his lips. It would terrify him if it was anyone but Mick, anyone he trusted even a jot less. 

_But what’s happening?_

_You’re possessing me._

_Uh. What? Can we do that?_

_Apparently_ , Len says. _But that’s not important right now._

_It’s not?_

_No. Right now, I need you to start a fire._

_Shoulda known you wanted me for the arson..._

Len tries and fails to roll his eyes.

Mick opens his – well, Len's – eyes, which Len at some point seems to have shut. 

Tomio is looking out through Cabrera's eyes, smug and satisfied. "Now," he says. "About my resurrection –"

"Resurrection?" Mick asks through Len's mouth. "Are you fucking kidding me? He'd never resurrect you."

_And you don't even know who he is_ , Len thinks happily.

_I know_ you, _boss_ , Mick retorts. _It wouldn't matter if he was Santa Claus._

"Something's gone wrong," Alvarez says.

They're surrounded by Santini men – and Lewis – and they're commanded by Don Tomio. Everything is about to go very badly.

_Mick? That fire?_

Mick smiles.

The walls of the room goes up in a rush of flame.

Mick is a very powerful poltergeist to retain his powers through a possession. 

But Len knew that already.

There’s screaming and shooting – because of course the thugs go for their guns, even though they don’t know who to shoot – and Mick gets Len’s body out of the ropes and the circle and goes straight for target number one.

Len didn’t even need to tell him it was Lewis.

“What –” Lewis chokes out just before Mick wraps his hands around his throat. He’s clutching at his shoulder; he’s been shot.

Len can hear shouting and shooting from downstairs, too, and explosions as well.

The Flash and his team are here, causing chaos. 

Perfect.

“Fix him,” Mick snarls, his eyes – Len’s eyes – flaming white; Len can see it reflected in the window on the side of the room. The flames crackle around the edges of the room, already making it too hot; the doorway to downstairs is still open, but the flames are starting to crawl up the curtains and edge forward towards the center where everyone is standing. The escape route is closing. “Fix him _now_.”

“And then what?” Lewis sneers, even as his fingers fight to pull Len's own off of him. Possessed or not, Lewis will never see Len as a threat. “You’ll kill me, is that it?”

He’s reaching for his pocket.

_Don’t let him get the detonator!_

“If you fix him, I won’t kill you,” Mick says instead.

Lewis pauses. He's always been good at spotting opportunities to make a deal. “Oh, sure. But _he_ will, I take it?” Also at spotting potential loopholes. 

“No,” Mick says. “Neither he nor I will kill you. I swear it.”

Lewis’ eyes narrow.

“Last chance,” Mick says. “Or I’ll let the Santinis have you – and blame you for what’s gone wrong.”

“Fine,” Lewis snarls, and holds up a black brick – a magnet? – to the back of Len’s head.

Len howls in pain as the back of his head just rips open, the iron shards embedded in the glass ripping it out in a single horrifically painful motion, no finesse to it at all, the back of his head suddenly wet with blood that starts dripping down his neck. 

And suddenly, through the pain, eclipsing it, his head is clear. 

The room fills with ghosts almost immediately, all of the ones who have been held back streaming forward to fill the vacuum Len inadvertently created, and the room is full of them, flooding the room, filling it.

It’s loud. It’s so gloriously loud.

Len was so afraid that he’d never hear them ever again.

They’re back.

_He’s_ back.

_Lenny! Lenny, you okay?_

_I will be_ , Len tells him. He’s happy Mick doesn’t feel the pain as the back of Len’s head pours out blood – Lewis was clearly counting on the pain immobilizing Mick because he immediately starts struggling to get free, but Mick’s not having any of that – but still, that fucking hurt.

_Do you want to deal with..?_

Mick means Lewis.

He means -

Something has to be done. Lewis knows about Len's power, now. He can't be permitted out of here with that knowledge, promises or no promises.

And the only way to keep that knowledge secret is -

Len swallows. _No_ , he says, hating himself just a little bit for not being able to do what he has to, but that little boy inside of him that so wanted his dad's approval won't stand for it even if Lewis deserves it a million times over. Len can't do it, not with his own hands. _I can’t. You do it._

_Fire?_

_No_ , Len says, the idea coming to him. _You told him we wouldn’t kill him._

_I was_ lying, _boss._

_I know. But do this instead…_

Mick smiles with Len’s mouth and picks Lewis up. “Boss doesn’t want me to break my word,” he rumbles. “So I won’t. Doesn’t mean you ain’t gonna get exactly what you deserve, though, you prick.”

And he throws Lewis into the still-active blood circle.

And the ghosts – now that Len’s ability is returning, fast and _loud_ and glorious – are streaming into the room, hundreds of them, friendlies and unquiet dead both, and they’re all as hungry for life as always.

And the blood circle promised them a man of that blood in exchange for power.

Lewis starts to scream, but it cuts off and he gags on it. 

He dies on the floor, choking on the unquiet dead that rip his life away from him in greedy handfuls.

Just like Len’s mom. 

_Good riddance_ , Len says, but his chest feels weird. Like something’s gone wrong in there.

_I’m gonna get out of here_ , Mick says.

Len exhales, and Mick is hovering in front of him. “Why the sudden rush?” Len asks.

Mick wraps a hand around Len’s arm. It’s the way he hugs Len in public, or when he thinks Len's about to have a panic attack. 

It helps.

“Try breathing,” Mick suggests.

Len does.

That helps, too.

And then he turns to the rest of the room.

Don Tomio is still in Cabrera’s body, giving orders to his people, trying to reign in the chaos, put out the fire.

“Hey, Tomio!” Len calls.

The Don looks at him.

“You will _never_ come back to life,” Len says. “I’ll pass on _myself_ first.”

The Don’s face twists in terrible rage.

“I’ll give you one tip, though,” Len adds. “Cabrera used fire to control you, didn’t he? The cigar?”

“What about it?” Tomio snarls.

“The fire expanded before it was put out,” Len tells him. “Now it’s not just the cigar, it’s the whole room. As long as this fire keeps burning, he can’t cast you out – and _I_ can’t touch you while you’re in there. Or won’t, which is the same thing in the end.”

Len watches as Tomio’s back goes straight. “Stop!” he roars. He doesn't want to go back to being a ghost; no ghost ever does. “Don’t put the fire out – corral it, but make sure it doesn’t go out! Someone get on the phone with whatever agents we have at the fire department! This fire needs to keep burning!”

Len glances at Mick and nods. Mick nods in return and wraps his arms around Len, barreling out the window and floating them down to the ground. 

“What was that last bit about?” Mick asks as they land lightly. “Don Tomio – I remember him. He’s bad business. Why tip him off on how to stick around?”

“The medium he’s possessing – Cabrera – he’s _worse_ ,” Len tells him. “And every extra hour he spends in Cabrera’s body burns the years of Cabrera’s life away. Besides, Tomio will fade away anyway - he's lost his only reason for sticking around, the thought of finding some way of coming back. Now that he knows it's gone, there's nothing keeping him here.”

Mick nods.

Len can’t help but pull him close. He’d been so afraid. 

It’d been so _close_.

“Mick,” he says, his voice cracking a little.

“I got you,” Mick says. “I’ve got you, now and forever.”

“You bet you do,” Len says.

“Hey, you guys! Rory, stop cuddling your boyfriend,” Barry says, coming to a stop in front of them. “We’ve got to put out this fire before it spreads.”

“Give it a little time,” Len says, not letting go of Mick. “I’m glad you found me. Were those explosions I heard just now?”

“That was 100% your Junior Rogues' doing,” Barry tells him. “ _Your_ responsibility. Also, do you have any other bad family members I should know about, just for safety’s sake? Evil uncles? Grand-aunts? Someone’s aunt’s second cousin’s former roommate? Something?”

“You’re less tactful than I am, and I’m _dead_ ,” Mick tells Barry.

“Oh, speaking of which,” Barry says. “Lisa said to tell you that the second you get back, she’s going to murder you _both_.”

Len starts laughing.


	21. 20

“You know, you guys _can_ leave me alone, right?” Len says. He’s said it before, mildly. He’s moved on to pointedly. He's seriously considering an escalation to 'backed up with physical violence'. “I’m _fine_.”

“Of course you’re fine,” Cisco says, snuggling into Lisa on the couch. “I’m here to support Lisa.”

“I have trauma,” Lisa puts in, smirking. 

For all her lighthearted one, Len doesn’t actually doubt that she's being semi-serious about that, given that she hasn’t let him out of her sight since the events with their dad. He tried to apologize to her about killing Lewis – he was their dad, despite it all, and it was an awful way to die – and she punched him in the face, then apologized. She didn’t pull her punch at all, either; sometimes he still feels the echo of the bruise on his cheek even though it’s been a few weeks.

Of course, she’s nothing compared to Mick, who’s barely willing to go to the kitchen long enough to get them all snacks. It’s like they think Len will be kidnapped the second he takes a step outside if he's not being supervised.

Len’s not some sort of fragile porcelain doll that needs to be wrapped in bubblewrap, damnit.

Okay, yes, he’s been a bit twitchy ever since Barry reported that Cabrera’s body hadn’t been found in the remains of the burned building, though Barry did say hopefully that several bodies were burned beyond recognition and that surely Cabrera is one of them. And, yes, maybe Len's been sublimating some of his feelings about his dad's death and everything that happened into being a bit more cautious than usual about it, feeling like he should be looking over his shoulder constantly, but it is what it is. It's certainly not a problem or anything.

Seriously.

They're being _ridiculous_.

“What are we watching?” Len asks, finally resigning himself to the inevitable and giving in to the absurdity that is the recently declared Team Flash (and Junior Rogues) movie night.

“Minority Report,” Caitlin says, with just a hint of snark in her tone. “It should be paranoid enough for Barry.” 

“I’m not _paranoid_ ,” Barry grumbles. “ _Len's_ paranoid. I'm just cautious, that's all. Weird stuff just keeps happening.”

“You _are_ a superhero,” Lisa points out.

“Yeah, but does that mean I have to fight, like, _telepathic gorillas_? Or so-called immortal assholes with knives?”

Len rolls his eyes. He’d been very glad to sit that latter one out – Barry’d had a good point in that Team Arrow, or whatever they were calling themselves over in Star City, needed to have a chance to meet Jax and Webber without any preconceived notions like, say, well-known criminals hanging around. 

Yes, Len is perfectly aware that Barry's explanation was a lie designed to make him okay with being benched at least until the stitches he’d gotten in the back of his head were taken out, but he doesn’t care. They’re out now - Caitlin removed them earlier in the week - and he’s fine, and, he hates to keep stressing this, he’s not _actually_ part of the superhero squad. He and his Rogues, Junior or otherwise, are villains. Thieves. _Bad guys._

Admittedly, their most heinous act recently was tasting that vaguely horrific and possibly sentient jello salad Jax brought over, but _still_...

“I’m not talking about the weird things you fight, Barry,” Caitlin says tartly. “I'm talking about your unjustified paranoia. Don’t think I don’t know that you _still_ have your ghosts following Jay around! Even though he’s helped us half a dozen times – you don’t even have them following Harry around anymore, and he actually _did_ steal your speed –”

“Well,” Barry says. “Actually…”

“Barry!” Iris snaps, only half-amused. She’s sitting over on the couch near Wally, as she has been these last few weeks – ever since the big Joe-and-Francine blow-up following the Family Secret Revelation Sequence, something else Len is very, very happy he missed. The whole thing set both kids against both parents, but at least Francine, with the assistance of timely marrow donations by Iris, is slowly on the mend and on a strict sobriety plan with Jenna’s able assistance.

Iris has also not really been talking to Barry since then, since he had the bad taste to side, however half-heartedly, with Joe on the subject of whether or not it was okay for him to conceal Francine’s existence. It hadn’t been pretty. 

They’ve only _just_ managed to convince both of them to be in the same movie night, and even then Iris only agreed to come because Wally was coming and Eddie was busy.

“What?!” Barry says defensively. “Snart gave me two ghosts, I had two people…”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re actually after you,” Len opines.

That just garners him dirty looks from around the room.

"Who are these people again?" he murmurs to Lisa and Cisco. 

"Harry's the Harrison Wells double from Earth-2," Cisco murmurs back. "He came to help fight Zoom because his daughter Jesse was kidnapped. Jay is Earth-2's version of the Flash. He's been helping out with Flash things and science and stuff."

"You don't care," Lisa translates.

"I really don't," Len decides. 

“But seriously, Barry,” Caitlin says, rolling her eyes at all of them since they'd only made the barest pretense at being subtle. “You should stop picking on Jay all the time. He’s sick, not evil. We should be helping him, not stalking him.”

“Wait, Jay’s sick?” Wally asks from where he and Jax are lolling around on the floor next to Iris. “He didn’t say anything about being sick.”

Caitlin flushes.

Lisa and Len share a look, scenting blood. Len inclines his head, yielding to Lisa.

“Caitlin,” Lisa purrs, leaning forward. “Did you do something _bad_?”

“No!”

“You _did_!”

“It was for his own good!” Caitlin exclaims, which means she totally did something unethical and feels bad about it. “I could see that his symptoms were getting worse...anyway, I figured it out. Ever since Zoom stole Jay's speed, he's been dying, little by little. It’s killing him! He said he didn't need my help, but I know that two minds are better than one. So I took a tiny little sample of his blood…”

“He definitely didn’t okay that,” Cisco says, starting to grin. “Caitlin, you sneaky _fox_. Should we be moving you to the Junior Rogues? What does Ronnie have to say about your _interest_ , huh?”

“I just wanted to see if we could get him a transfusion from this world’s version of him,” Caitlin replies, blushing. “And Ronnie is _fine_ with it, thanks! Ronnie wants to help him, too.”

“Ooh-la-la,” Lisa says dryly. “We may end up with another three-way in the making.”

“What do you mean, another?” Barry asks, because he is _actually_ that oblivious sometimes. Iris scowls the scowl of the ‘we haven’t asked him yet and also I’m angry at him right now so stop pushing Lisa’ – Len’s intimately acquainted with various variations on that scowl. 

“What’d you find?” Cisco asks hastily, derailing that conversation because Iris has made it clear that the first person to slip up and let Barry know about her and Eddie's extremely unsubtle interest in him will face her wrath, and no one, not even Len, is interested in that. 

“Well, he says the transfusion idea won’t work,” Caitlin says with a sigh. “I couldn’t even find his duplicate at first, but Jay explained that it was just that his name had been changed, and that he’d already explored that option…”

Len frowns. “Wait, this Jay guy's name changed? To what?” he asks.

“Not Jay's name, the name of his duplicate on this Earth - he changed it to Hunter Zolomon. Why?”

“Are you telling me that _everyone_ on Earth-2 has the same name as us except for this one guy?” Len says skeptically.

“Weird,” Jax says.

"Very weird," Barry says. 

“ _Improbably_ weird,” Wally says. "He's _definitely_ up to something."

“He just got his name changed, guys,” Caitlin says defensively. “It’s not a crime.”

“He changed his first name, too, which ain't really that common,” Len drawls. “That might not be a crime, but it’s suspicious. And given what happened with the last speedster mentor you had, that's enough for me. Barry, could you text that hacker friend of yours, see if she can ID this guy and find out when he changed his name?”

“Why?” Cisco asks. “What does it matter?”

“Because if he changed his name, or someone changed it for him, then that’s one thing,” Len says. “There’ll be records of it. But if there ain’t any records…” He trails off pointedly, raising his eyebrows. Mick, Lisa, and Wally - the ones more familiar with criminal habits - are all nodding; everyone else just looks confused. 

“What does that mean?” Jax asks.

“No records means either he did it illegal - or, more likely, means your Earth-2 Jay Garrick’s the one faking his name, not his double here,” Mick explains. “And if he is, I’d like to know why.”

“I _knew_ he was suspicious!” Barry exclaims triumphantly.

“You haven’t even _checked_ yet!” Caitlin exclaims in reply. 

“I’m texting Felicity now!”

The response arrives five minutes later.

“No name changes,” Barry says, looking up. “Sorry, Caitlin. Our Earth's Hunter Zolomon has always been named Hunter Zolomon. I _told_ you something was up.”

“Okay, so he gave us a false name,” Caitlin says, still defensive, though even she sounds a little doubtful now. “I mean, it’s not evidence he’s up to something. Or that he’s _bad_ or something. He's their Flash! I'm sure he has a reason.”

“Maybe he’s wanted on Earth-2,” Wally suggests.

“No, Harry recognized him,” Cisco says. “They hate each other.”

“All that means is that he changed his name while on Earth-2 and before he became that Earth's Flash,” Mick says. “Probably got a warrant out for him there.”

“Easy enough to check though, right?” Wally says. “Cisco, why don’t you ask _Harry_?” The last word is pointedly sing-song.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Cisco yelps, even as everyone - especially Lisa - smirks at him. “I don’t like him!”

“You totally like him,” Jax says.

“He’s helping us! We’re helping him! I hate his guts!”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Just ask him, will you?”

Cisco grumbles, but he pulls out his phone. “Siri, call Harry and put on speaker.”

The phone rings, then picks up. “ _Yes_ , Francisco, I turned the machine off already,” Harry snaps. “There's no need to check up on me, I’m not an infant -”

“No, no,” Cisco says soothingly. “We just had a quick question for you – do you happen to know anyone on Earth-2 called Hunter Zolomon?”

The phone is silent.

“Uh, Harry? Did we drop you –”

“No,” Harry says. “Where did you hear that name? I need to know right away.”

“Why?” Barry asks.

“Well,” Harry says, “because on my earth, Hunter Zolomon is a convicted serial killer.”

“He’s a _what_?!” the room choruses. 

“Harry, would you be able to recognize him, if you saw him?” Caitlin asks, looking distressed. “You would, right?”

“Of course I could. The last photo of him – all shaggy hair, beard, everything – it’s, well. It’s unmistakable. I’ll be able to identify him immediately. Anyone would be. We don’t actually have that many serial killers, it’s something of an anomaly – he saw his mother killed by his father when he was a kid, and it apparently triggered something, and then when he grew up, he killed 23 people and was sentenced to a mental asylum, it was a pretty big deal - all over the news –”

“So he’d change his name if he wanted to go into hiding, huh?” Mick says. 

“Except serial killers don’t really like hiding,” Len says, concerned. He remembers the last time he had to find a serial killer - if it hadn't been for Lisa...

“…wait, who is that speaking? Cisco?”

“Not important,” Barry says. “We have a different problem. See you soon, Harry.”

Len reaches forward to click off the phone. 

“As I said,” he drawls, surveying all the wide-eyed faces around him. Caitlin in particular looks sick to her stomach. “It ain’t paranoia if they're actually out to get you.”

“Score a point for good communication,” Mick adds dryly.

“Uh,” Barry says, then shakes his head. “I must admit, that was – not what I was suspecting. I don't even know what I was suspecting, but it wasn't _serial killer_.”

“Me either,” Caitlin says, looking stunned. “He said – he was a _scientist_ – he stayed at our _house_ –”

Iris puts a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Caitlin. But…speedster serial killer? That doesn't sound familiar to just me, does it?"

"Wait, you think - do you think he's _Zoom_?” Cisco demands. 

"Why not?"

“He can’t be,” Barry says. “We’ve been watching him – he and Zoom have appeared at the same place at the same time before.”

“That’s no guarantee,” Cisco says, not without some bitterness, rubbing his chest.

“Besides, even if he’s not, he might still sell us out to Zoom,” Wally points out.

“He might _be_ Zoom,” Iris says. “I’m telling you guys. If he's figured out some way to duplicate himself, then it'd be a great way to throw off the scent. Maybe it's a side-effect of that Velocity stuff Caitlin is working on for him?”

“I’m destroying it,” Caitlin says immediately.

“Not the immediate issue,” Len says. He lolls his head back on the couch. “Hey, Rakesh, Sirina.” 

“Yeah, boss?” Rakesh says, popping up through the wall behind him, Sirina close behind. They're some of the newest members of Mick's ghost squad - new, but competent enough to get through Mick's preliminary tests. 

“Go make sure Jay Garrick a.k.a Hunter Zolomon doesn’t escape.”

“Yes, boss!”

“I should probably…” Barry starts.

“Wait half a second before you go off half-cocked, Barry,” Lisa says. “He’s been in on the planning for our visit to Earth-2, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s the one who told us about Zoom’s army,” Iris says. 

“Army?” Mick asks.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the latest,” Cisco says. “Zoom is gathering an _army_ of metas from Earth-2 to defend their home and also come get us here. And we have…Barry. And Firestorm.”

“And us,” Jax points out.

“Yeah,” Cisco says. “Exactly. That’s _it_.”

“At least we have an advantage over Jay,” Lisa says. “He’s a serial killer.”

“That’s an _advantage_?” Wally asks.

“Yeah,” Iris says. “I’m not seeing that one.”

“Don’t you guys watch Criminal Minds?”

The room’s reactions is mixed.

“I’m just saying,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes. “This Zoom guy’s been all about the ‘you and me, we’re the same’ sort of bullshit with Barry, right? With him being better, of course.”

“Jay working with him – or being him – would explain how he knows so much,” Barry says bitterly.

“Still not seeing how that _helps_ ,” Jax says.

“He saw his mom die right in front of him, yeah?” Len asks abruptly. 

“So?”

“Nora didn’t die in front of Barry,” Len says. “Now, if I were a crazy psychopath –”

“Wow, now there’s a stretch,” Cisco says, rolling his eyes and smiling.

“Fuck off,” Mick says, but fondly.

“ _Anyway_ ," Len says, rolling his eyes at both of them. "I’m just saying – if I was into the whole 'we're the same, you and me' playbook and, say, there was a chance to recreate my trauma –”

“You want him to – what?”

“Well, have this Jay told him about the ghosts?”

“Not exactly,” Barry hedges. “I’m sure he’s figured it out, though.”

“Damn.”

“I think I see your point,” Nora says. She's hovering at Barry's shoulder as always. “I could be very good bait.”

“Won’t work if he thinks you’re already dead. Though - that means he might go after Doc instead.”

Both Nora and Barry look alarmed. “We’re sending Dad out of the city, then,” Barry says. “Mom – that old cabin, you think he’d go?”

“He’s been wanting some fresh air and time to stretch his legs,” she agrees. “I’ll suggest it.”

She disappears.

“I can’t believe I’m used to that now,” Jax muses.

“Wait, if Jay's evil, is our Plan 'Take the Fight to Zoom' still viable?” Barry asks. “Jay knew about our plans to go to Earth-2 and confront Zoom there.”

“Thus the army,” Jax agrees. 

“He might try to use the opportunity of us not being here to grab hostages, though,” Cisco says. “Like the way he took Harry’s daughter.”

“Eddie can’t go,” Iris says immediately. “And I’m not going without him.”

“But Iris –” Barry starts unwisely.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what I can and can’t do, Barry Allen!”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Len says loudly before they descend into bickering. “Not like Jay saw much of Iris or Eddie, given that you and Barry were having your spat for the last few months.”

"The Barry and Iris blow-up of doom had a purpose, then?" Cisco asks. "Yeesh. Well, good, I guess?"

Both of them glare at him.

He tries to hide behind Lisa.

“Besides,” Caitlin says, jumping into the fray to rescue him. “Iris was busy with wedding planning.”

Iris groans theatrically. “Don’t remind me,” she says. “Eddie’s family is _intolerable_. How did I not know this?”

“Because they don’t live in Central,” Wally says. “And you didn’t have to deal with them before. Also, no offense, but wasn't evil Wells related to that family?”

"Everything is explained," Iris mutters. 

“You could always just do it informally like I did,” Caitlin says.

“Everyone in both of our families would kill me,” Iris says. "Literally, I suspect."

"Besides, Caitlin, you just wanted it over quick enough that your mom wouldn't find out," Cisco teases.

"Absolutely," Caitlin says. "No shame."

Lisa snorts. "That bad, huh?"

"You know me," Caitlin says. "And my precision of language."

"Yeah?"

"My mom's a bitch with a heart colder than Len's gun."

"Girl!" Cisco says, sounding impressed. Mick wolf-whistles. Len smirks.

Lisa offers a fist-bump, which she returns with a faint smile.

Len shakes his head in amusement.

“Getting _back_ to the whole _serial killer_ thing, which I understand is less of a priority than Iris' wedding planning but which I'd like to spend a little time on anyway,” Jax says. “What do we do now?”

“We should get Harry,” Cisco says. “He can help with the planning.” 

“I’ll get him,” Barry says. “Len, your ghosts are on the job of stopping Jay, right?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “Though they’re taking their time on it. If they’re not back in five, I’ll let you know.”

Nods around the room.

Barry speeds away.

“So, this Harry guy,” Mick says. “Anything I need to know before letting him hang around here?”

“Uh,” Cisco says. “It’s…a long story?”

“Start now,” Lisa says. “We’re listening.”

“He’s a know-it-all asshole,” Jax says.

“He’s going to be super rude,” Wally adds.

“He tried to steal Barry’s speed once,” Iris says.

“He might’ve killed a prisoner,” Caitlin says.

Len blinks. “So…he’s a villain on his Earth?”

“No! I mean…I…uh…no? I don’t think so?”

“You’ll understand when you meet him,” Cisco says.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Mick grunts. He comes over to stand by Len, an obvious warning.

"Mick," Len snaps. "Nothing's gonna happen to me."

"You had another unquiet dead attack _last week_ ," Mick replies.

"And nothing happened! I barely felt it before you guys fought it off –"

"That time," Mick says, his tone ominous.

Len glares up at him. “I’m not made of _glass_ ,” he hisses.

“And I want to _keep it that way_ ,” Mick says firmly.

Barry and Harry flash in a moment later, before Len can respond appropriately – probably with profanity. Harry looks disoriented as Barry releases him. "Sorry for the secrecy, Harry," Barry says. "It's – well, it's a long story."

"No problem," Harry says. "Who did you bring me to – Mayor Snart!"

"Wait," Len says. " _Mayor_?"

The next few minutes are a mess before they get Harry to calm down enough to confirm that yes, Lisa Snart is the mayor of Central City in his universe, at least in part because of a meta ability that permits her to become temporarily incorporeal and thereby immune to Zoom and his lackeys. 

"Temporarily incorporeal," Len says, exchanging meaningful looks with Mick. Neither of them are particularly pleased with the idea of Lisa being a ghost.

"It's possible it's a real meta ability," Caitlin reminds them. 

"I still can't believe I'm dating the alternate version of your _mayor_ ," Cisco marvels.

"Hah!" Mick exclaims, pointing at him. "Finally admitted you two're dating!"

"...crap."

"They're not going to do anything about it, they're just drama queens," Lisa assures him.

Mick mimes slicing a throat over her head.

Cisco gulps.

"Mick, stop whatever you're doing," Lisa instructs without turning around.

"The plan is to go to Earth-2 and find out everything possible about Zoom's meta army invasion, right?" Len asks Barry, because he's not an idiot. He'll wait till Cisco's alone to threaten him. "I don't see any reason to change that just because they have advance warning that that's the plan." 

Barry nods. "If we can stop on Earth-2, all the better," he says firmly. 

"You do remember that my sources on that earth tell me he's gathered an army," Harry says.

"Well, yes, but we're going to be _sneaky_ about it," Barry says. "I was thinking we could swap out our doppelgangers – "

"Only if they're located somewhere that would be useful," Len says.

"…oh. Right."

"It'll be all right, Harry," Cisco says confidently. "We know what we're doing." 

Harry looks skeptical.

The mental timer in Len’s head hits zero.

Len frowns. Either Rakesh or Sirina should be back by now to report on their success – or failure. 

“Barry, something’s wrong with the ghosts,” Len says. “Go check up on ‘em, make sure Jay didn’t get away. Then we need to change our plans for taking the fight to Earth-2 to account for Jay knowing what he knows.”

“I’m on it,” Barry says, and disappears in a crackle of lightning.

“Ghosts? No, not important. What about Jay? Have you finally realized that the coward’s not good for anything?” Harry asks. “And what about Hunter Zolomon? Is he here?”

“Jay Garrick is Hunter Zolomon,” Caitlin says.

“ _What_?”

“We should go back to STAR Labs,” Cisco says. “If Jay is Zoom, we have additional problems; Barry might need support.”

“ _Jay_ is _Zoom_?” Harry exclaims. “But – he – the Flash – but -”

“Probably for the best,” Len tells the rest of Team Flash, who all look like they’re dying to find out what’s going on. “No way movie night is going on right now.”

They go, even Lisa after Len tells her it’s okay. 

Len waits until they’re all gone, then his eyes slide over to Mick. “So,” he says.

“So,” Mick replies.

“They’re all gone.”

“They are.”

“And we’re all alone.”

“We are.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a movie night without them.”

“Nope.”

"Guess we need to make other plans."

"Sure seems that way."

“So…”

Mick smiles. “I got some ideas,” he purrs.

That jewelry store was just _asking_ to be robbed, honestly. 

“Barry texted me that I’m a jerk for taking advantage of his distraction,” Len tells Mick proudly.

“Tell him we’re rekindling our relationship,” Mick replies, pulling diamonds out of the duffel bag they’d stuffed them in.

“Heh. Re _kindling_.”

Mick rolls his eyes.

That’s when Rakesh and Sirina show back up. Both of them. Looking somewhat shame-faced.

“Hey,” Len says, frowning at them. “You two okay?”

“We couldn’t get him,” Rakesh says. “He wasn’t solid.”

“ _He_ wasn’t solid?”

“Our hands went straight through him,” Sirina explains. “I think it’s because he’s from a different universe.”

“Well, that’s a problem,” Mick says, scowling. 

“Barry will handle it,” Len says, and texts him for an update.

A few minutes later –

“Barry did not handle it,” Len says, frowning at his screen. “Apparently Zoom showed up and iced this Jay guy.”

“How’d he know we were onto him?” Mick asks.

“Not sure. Barry says they’re going to keep up with Plan A and head to Earth-2.”

Mick nods. “Still going in groups?”

“Yeah, Barry says they agree that Eddie and Iris are safe to stay, as discussed –”

“Still say it was a dick move on Barry’s part,” Mick says. “Nagging Iris to forgive her dad for, you know, lying about her mom not being dead for _twenty years_. Or her mom for ditching in the first place.”

“Don’t disagree, but it’s not our problem,” Len says. “Barry’s asking if we can either stay and watch the city _without_ stealing stuff, or if we want to go with them.”

Mick blinks. “He’s asking if we want to volunteer for stupid-ass heroism and self-restraint or go to another dimension?” he asks. “Really?”

“Yeah, I know,” Len says. “Like that’s a choice.”

He texts ‘hell yes we’re coming to E2’ back to Barry.

A few hours later, everyone’s ready to go. “We’re going to each go through the breach and head out our own ways,” Barry says. He’s very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, even more than usual; he and Iris are standing next to each other, which means they’ve made up in the face of possible danger. 

Good for them. 

“Cisco, Harry and I are going to go to STAR Labs to do what we can with the monitors,” Barry continues. “And to grab whatever tech Harry says might be useful. We’ll have phones, so if you need me, I’ll be there.”

“In a flash,” Len adds.

“You don’t have to say it _every time_ ,” Lisa groans.

“If he doesn’t, I will,” Iris puts in. “I named him that, Snart; next time I get dibs on the puns.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Barry says, notably not disagreeing. He loves that pun. “Jax, Firestorm, and Lisa are going to go hit the CCPD and the mayor’s office – hopefully get what info they might have. Not too much stealing, okay guys?”

“Don’t worry, Stein and I won’t let them,” Firestorm - the joint mix of Caitlin's Raymond and a crabby professor called Martin Stein - says. His head is on fire again. Mick is smiling at him again. 

Len's not too fond of Firestorm. 

“It’s cute that you think that’ll work,” Jax says, high-fiving Lisa.

“ _Guys_ ,” Barry says.

“I’m going with Caitlin,” Wally says, since Barry seems to have been derailed. “We’ll drive around, scout the area, try to mingle a bit. Low profile, if we can.”

“Fair enough,” Len says. “And Mick and I?”

“We’d like you to come in a few hours after we’re gone,” Barry says. “With your guns, to serve as back-up for whoever’s in trouble.” He winces. “Because we assume someone will be in trouble.”

“Probably,” Mick says with a smirk.

And so they go, piling into the breach, Iris and Eddie maneuvering the machinery at Cisco’s instruction. 

A few hours later, Iris and Eddie do the same for Len and Mick. They walk through a portal into a brand new world, exchanging giant grins as they go.

And then they step through, and Len freezes.


	22. 21

"Boss?" Mick says. 

Len blinks. That might not be the first time Mick’s said that. “Yeah?”

"You okay?" Mick approaches Len almost warily. Len checks his mental clock; they haven’t moved a muscle for near on five minutes. 

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" 

"You keep rubbing your chest for some reason."

"It's cold," Len says.

"It really ain't, boss." Mick hesitates. "If you're spooked about what happened with your dad – "

"I'm not _spooked_ ," Len protests immediately. "I'm the one _with_ the spooks, remember?"

As if that's the words that open the door, Len is suddenly hit, dead in the chest, with –

"Unquiet dead?" Mick asks, instantly on the alert, looking around.

– _euphoria_.

Not Len's, though; he's vaguely aware that it's not him that's happy, but rather that someone very close by is very, very happy.

"No," he croaks. "Not unquiet – happy?"

"Happy? What's that mean?"

"They're – _happy_."

And then they come.

Ghosts.

Hundreds of them, pouring in from everywhere, streets and sky and sewers, swimming towards him, swirling in an ever-narrowing circle like they're caught in a giant drain-pipe and Len's the grate at the bottom. 

Mick swears and jumps in their way, fist making contact with the first ghost that comes for Len. 

"The unquiet dead in this world are _happy_?!" he yells, beating them off, but barely.

Len scowls even as he tries to back away. He doesn't understand, they don't _feel_ like the unquiet dead – the difference between the worlds couldn't be _that_ extreme, could it? Unless...

He licks his lips and swallows to wet his throat, and then he bellows, "Stop!" at the top of his lungs.

The ghosts freeze in place.

They're all _smiling_. Their hands are outstretched, but they're smiling, all happy, all delighted like kids out to the zoo for the first time –

"You don't have people like me in this world, do you?" Len asks, inspiration hitting. These aren't unquiet dead - these are regular old run-of-the-mill friendlies. Just...very deprived ones. 

He points at a nearby ghost, a man in his early thirties with an earnest face. Kind of reminds him of Barry, if Barry had been a fighter pilot wearing an eye-scarring shade of green. "You, answer."

"Not in years," the ghost says promptly. "Before my time. They were all killed off."

"That sounds bad," Mick says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, still standing protectively halfway in front of Len. "By who? They still a threat?"

"No, no," the ghost says quickly. "It was many, many years ago. That era is long gone."

One of the other ghosts twitches.

"You," Len says, nodding at her. Latina girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties. College student, he’d guess. Also wearing an eye-scarring shade of green, amusingly enough. 

"It was less than a hundred years ago," she says apologetically. "Not _that_ many years."

"That's plenty of years," the first ghost grumbles.

"No, it really isn't," Mick replies, scowling. "You made it sound like it happened in the dark ages or something. Less than a hundred years ago? What the hell happened?"

"Well, when they were eliminating the human targets for missile strikes during the Great War –"

"Great War – wait, you mean World War I?" Len asks.

He's met with a sea of confused faces. "There's only been one World War," the Latina girl says. "1914 through 1945, thirty years of endless war. And it was followed by the Rebuilding - and the Witch Hunts of the '50s, of course. I was a dual history-architecture major; we went into it in detail because that's the reason all the buildings in Central City are so new and shiny. They all date back to the Rebuilding. The post-war economic boom."

Len looks around.

She’s right – Central City is a positive smorgasbord of shiny new buildings: a monorail, skyscrapers, lovely art deco as far as the eye can see, even when you squint over in the direction of the slums. Even the _slums_ are all gussied up and that’s just _wrong_.

The only way something like that would _ever_ happen if is - well, if there weren’t anything left there to build on top of and you had to rebuild from scratch.

Mick and Len exchange alarmed looks. " _Central City_ got bombed?" Len asks, because his brain can't even comprehend it. Central City's in the middle of the goddamn country; how could it have been bombed? Much less - “To the _ground_?”

"Forget that," Mick says. "What's this about witch hunts? Is that when they went after the people like Len?"

"Well, you see, by the end of the war, when things developed into a race between the remaining major powers -"

"Cold War," Len murmurs. 

"- there was a lot of weapons development by that point. Specifically, both sides had started using biomechanical targeting systems for their long-range missiles - in particularly, there were these homing beacons that could be ingested, so that they could smuggle them in just about everywhere, extract them, and then plant them to achieve a precise strike target. These beacons were powered by human heartbeats, too, so they’d stop working if the person died; that was a sort of fail-safe, you know, in case the enemy side found out about it, because if they killed your agent, then they were calling down a missile strike on wherever the homing beacon was. And, well, there'd been a solid war-time effort to find anyone who was giving off unusual energy readings -"

"Like me," Len sighs.

"And after the war they got paranoid about spies and sort of stepped up their efforts to find _anyone_ with weird readings, no matter how faint, and that's why all the necromancers died."

"I'm not a necromancer," Len objects automatically.

Mick looks around at the army of ghosts for a quick second. "Course not, boss," he says. "But the name'll do for now, I think. Any chance of that sort of thing picking up on Len now?"

"Highly unlikely," another ghost chimes in, a portly older guy. "There was a pretty big backlash after the Witch Hunts, politically. We're much better now."

"Are we really?" the girl asks skeptically. "We still have all the laws on the books – they're the same ones that they use to target metahumans, or to allow those awful meta-detecting watches to be used to identify any meta as dangerous, no matter if they've done anything – "

"No wonder all those metas joined Zoom's army," Mick mutters to Len, who nods. What a shiny little dystopia there is here, hiding the rot under the surface.

Harry hadn't mentioned it when he briefed them all on what to expect on Earth-2, but then again, he's a rich white scientific corporation owner and probably the guy who _invented_ those awful-sounding meta-targeting watches. It’s probably never even occurred to him to wonder what sort of impact that type of automatic detection device would have on a population already terrified of their new-found powers and desperate for support – yet equally afraid of the sort of summary executions that had occurred within living memory.

Harry had been in favor of re-using the pipeline to store metas on their Earth, Len vaguely recalls Barry telling him. And had possibly killed a man imprisoned in the pipeline.

And, somehow, he _isn’t_ a villain.

What the fuck, Earth-2.

"Thanks for the intel," he says to the ghosts, trying to ignore how _many_ there are. "I’ll keep it in mind. You can go now."

Nobody moves.

"No, really. Free to go. Anytime."

"We don't want to go," one of the ghosts says, staring at Len almost beatifically. "We want to be next to you."

Len stares. He's not sure what to do with that. He doesn't want to order them to leave, even if he could manage to order around such a large group, but he can't cart around a massive entourage of ghosts – sure, if he doesn’t power them up, maybe no one else can see them, but it's distracting as hell to _Len_.

"Mick, any thoughts?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," Mick says. "What d'you think of this: ' _why do ghosts/suddenly appear/every time/you are near/just like me/they long to be/close to you_ '."

"I'm gonna punch you in your grinning smug face, you asshole," Len says after a long moment of shocked, horrified (and appreciative) silence.

"C'mon, boss, you've got to admit it was a good one."

"I admit nothing," Len says, even though he's having trouble keeping his lips from twitching. "Okay, all of you – how about a nice perimeter? Go back to about 100 feet away from me and hang out there unless I call you or look like I need your help."

There's a lot of ghosts pouting.

"Try ordering them," Mick suggests.

Len makes a face. He's still not sure he can order this many ghosts around, but they're only pouting, not actually objecting, so maybe a sterner tone of voice would work. "All of you," he says, raising his voice. "All but Mick. Go to the perimeter until I need you. _Now_."

They go.

They're still not that far away, perching on all the buildings like a giant flock of pigeons, peeping through alleyways and sometimes through buildings. 

"That's a bit creepy," Mick says.

"A _bit_ creepy?" 

Len's Cisco-enhanced Earth-2-compatible phone – because the comms wouldn’t work for some technobabble reason that Len had stopped listening to about two minutes in – picks that minute to start buzzing.

He checks it – shit, he's missed a whole set of calls and messages.

"Yeah?" he asks, answering the phone. "Who's in trouble?"

"Firestorm," Cisco says in a rush. “The police station – there was an ambush – well, I think we were supposed to hit the ambush first, but they got there first so the group watching STAR Labs left and went there –”

Len straightens. “Lisa’s in that group.”

“She’s okay,” Cisco assures them. “The police thought she was the mayor, so they leapt to her defense – just her, and she’s kind of pissed off by that, actually – and got her to safety, then Barry picked her up before the _actual_ mayor found out about it.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and, like, apparently you don’t exist in this universe? Or maybe died as a baby or something – Lisa asked around, but we weren't able to get anything out of them –”

Len thinks about watches designed to detect and out all individuals with the metahuman gene, witting or unwitting; thinks about fear and paranoia and biomechanical targeting systems; thinks of people being afraid of unusual energy readings – thinks, finally, about how far advanced genetic testing for infants has gotten back on Earth-1, much less in this shiny advanced and absolute awful universe. “Yeah, let’s not go into that, I don't care,” he says shortly. “Everyone’s safe?”

“Yeah, they’re all here at STAR Labs now. Caitlin's group is still out, though; they've reported in that they're still doing okay.”

"Good," Len says. "So what happened?" 

"Zoom's people attacked, but it wasn't real, it was to distract us while Zoom attacked Firestorm. He hit them with a lightning strike, split them apart, and then he grabbed Ronnie and ran him away!"

"Shit. Did Barry follow?"

"Yeah, but no luck. We have no idea where he might be – or even if he's alive."

"Hold on a minute," Len says, then covers the mouth of the phone. "Ronald Raymond," he says. "If you can hear this, come here."

He waits a few beats.

Nothing.

"Okay, so I don't think he's dead," Len tells Cisco, then pulls away again. "Can you guys go check where a man named Ronnie Raymond is for me, and bring him back to me if you can?"

The ghosts pour out of the square – not all of them, but a good number. It's a little freaky how eager they are to do what he wants. With the exception of leaving him alone, that is.

"I have some people searching," he informs Cisco. "We'll find him, with luck."

"Well, if we can't find him soon, Stein's going to be in trouble," Cisco says grimly. "He collapsed a few minutes ago; we've got him hooked up to the equipment here, and it's not good. The Firestorm matrix in his cells is deteriorating rapidly – way too rapidly. It shouldn't be happening this fast, but we have no idea what's causing it."

"Didn't they say that was what happened when they didn't merge for too long?" Mick, who's been eavesdropping, asks.

"Yeah, that's it," Len confirms, glancing at his partner. "Got an idea?"

"Well, if it's only when they don't merge for too long, then why's he dying already?"

"Maybe 'cause Ronnie's dead."

"Nah," Mick says. "Then Zoom'd leave us the body to taunt us. Is there anything that doesn't involve killing that'd put stress on their bond, make it more unstable somehow? Kill 'em slow?"

Len conveys the question, and Cisco replies, "We don't know. We'll run some tests – you think maybe Zoom just took him somewhere that hurts their bond?"

"Stretching too much for too long can sometimes cause more stress than a clean break," Len says. "At least with bones, anyway. Anyway, Zoom's a sadistic serial killer, so I'm with Mick – if Ronnie was dead, we'd see a body. If we don't, it's 'cause Zoom wants us to see 'em die slow. At least, here's hoping that's Zoom's plan, 'cause otherwise I don't see why he'd keep him alive..."

Len's voice trails off as he watches a small crowd of ghosts, some of the more powerful poltergeists, zoom cheerfully towards him, a brightly flaming Firestorm in their hands.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he didn’t specify _which_ Ronnie Raymond he wanted the ghosts to bring him.

"Uh," he says. "Cisco. You said Stein's with you, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

Len takes in the darker uniform, the twist of a snarl on the man wearing Ronnie's face as he struggles to get free. The poltergeists are losing energy fast, holding onto him; the blows he strikes can't hurt them, of course, but a few more hits and they'll be too incorporeal to hold him any longer. "Then I think I found his doppelganger. I'll call you back."

Len focuses on the ghosts holding Earth-2 Ronnie and pushes some life towards them. At first it doesn't go right – slippery and sideways, not having any impact – but then he figures out that if he aims right _next_ to them, kind of like trying to aim through the reflective surface of moving water, then it works just like it always has.

The poltergeists yelp like they've been zapped with static electricity, but he can see their grasp on Ronnie get stronger.

Good to know his curse still works here.

"Boss, you're pale," Mick murmurs. 

Len feels it a second later, a rush of weakness, but it's only momentary. "Harder to power up Earth-2 ghosts, I think," he says. "I think I've got the hang of it now."

The ghosts drop Ronnie at Len's feet.

"Hi there," Len says, and points his cold gun at Ronnie's head. "Let's chat."

"Breacher!" Ronnie spits. "You're not from here."

"No," Len says mildly. "I'm not. What did Zoom do with your duplicate? He took alternate you away."

Ronnie sneers. "Good riddance. I don't – "

"Do you know how you got here?" Len asks. 

Ronnie pauses. 

"Invisible hands, huh? Grabbing you? You know what that was?"

"Telekinesis – "

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

Mick chuckles, dark and dangerous. "Tell him, boss. Or better yet, _show_ him."

Len focuses. It's the barest sprinkling of energy, all around him, but the nearest few dozen ghosts shiver with pleasure.

And, as he'd intended, become visible. Just barely, but there.

An apparition usually appears in the corner of your eye, not apparent dead on – pun intended, of course – but this square has far too many apparitions for that.

Ronnie's eyes go wide.

"These are the dead," Len says cheerfully. "Some of them may even be your victims. Now, if you tell me what I want to know, I may let you go. Of course, I could be lying. Maybe I'll still kill you when I'm done – but I swear this much: I won't let the ghosts do it."

Ronnie swallows. Clearly, Len's threat is having some serious effect - and no wonder, with all of these ghosts hanging around. 

"Well?" Mick rumbles. 

"I - I told Zoom about the connection," Ronnie says. "Stein and me – we die if we're separated."

"After a few months, though," Len objects.

"A few months if we're in the same city or if someone dies," Ronnie corrects. "It's shorter if we're still connected, but located too far apart from each other."

"So Zoom took him away?" Len says, nodding a little. 

"Zoom planned to take him through a breach," Ronnie confesses. "To your Earth, then close the breach behind him. That way, they'll both die pretty rapidly."

"And you're not scared of him pulling the same trick on you?"

"I'm not scared of Zoom!"

Len rolls his eyes. "Sure," he drawls. "Trust the serial killer. Good idea."

"What're you talking about?" Ronnie asks suspiciously. 

Len arches his eyebrows. He can feel Mick shift behind him; he doesn't need to see him to know they're of the same mind. "Oh, he didn't tell you?" Len says as casually as he can. "Zoom also goes by the name of Hunter Zolomon."

They don't actually know that for sure yet, but it's having a great effect on Ronnie – his eyes bulge out, his lips go pale, he swallows. "I heard about him," he says. "Oh god – Cait – _Frost_ – she doesn't know – "

Nice to know some things are the same, assuming that 'Cait' refers to Caitlin. 

"Don't worry, I'm sure he won't use your weakness against you," Len drawls as sarcastically as possible. "Being as he cares so much about being on the same team."

"I'm joined up – "

"So were they," Mick says. "Zoom split them, then took one. But hey, good luck with that."

"I'll let you go," Len decides. "But next time, I won't be so nice."

Ronnie's head jerks in a nod.

"One last question. Where can we find Zoom?"

"He's gathering the army at the CCPD," Ronnie says. He can't share information fast enough now. "I'm technically one of his lieutenants, but he hasn't shared his plans with any of us."

"Who are his lieutenants?" Mick asks.

"Me, Cait – that's Killer Frost to you – Reverb and Black Siren."

"Real names being?"

"Uh, Ramon and – Lance, I think? Laurel Lance. She's from out of town. She has scream powers."

"Ramon," Len says. "Francisco or Dante?"

"Francisco. The other one isn't a lieutenant – Rupture is more of a back-up, really."

"Good to know," Len says. "Now go."

Ronnie flies away, presumably to go find the Earth-2 Caitlin. Who apparently goes by Killer Frost – either she has meta powers in this universe or she has really badass taste in nicknames. 

Len dials up Cisco. "Zoom took Ronnie back to Earth-1," he says when Cisco picks up. "That's why Stein is dying – too much strain."

"But our ride back to Earth-1 isn't for another 24 hours!"

"Find someone else who's compatible with Stein," Len suggests.

"From Earth-2?"

"Why not? Use those – one of the ghosts told me they have meta-human detecting watches?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Harry showed us. Pretty snazzy stuff."

Len rolls his eyes. "Cisco, you ever read X-men?"

"Sure have; why?"

"Mutant – I'm sorry, _meta_ – detectors for the general populace is a surefire way to radicalize an already oppressed minority."

"...oooooh. Shit. No wonder they all join in with Zoom. He's like Magneto, but, you know, badly written Magneto. The one they retconned to be Xorn or something."

Mick is nodding enthusiastically, because he’s never stopped being ridiculously into that comics stuff. Len just sighs. "Cisco. How do the watches _work_?"

"It's really cool – er, I mean, awful. Totally awful. It basically detects the presence of the metahuman gene in anyone in your surroundings - wow, that is _totally_ like X-men -"

"Cisco. Focus. Can you use the meta detectors everyone's wearing and program them to track for Firestorm compatibility instead? That possible?"

"Yeah! I can totally do that."

"Good. I'm going to call Caitlin now."

Len hangs up and redials. He's painfully aware that he's just standing on a street corner surrounded by quiet, watching ghosts. A _lot_ of ghosts.

Mick shifts and stands closer. Len relaxes a bit. At least he's got Mick. 

It takes a few rings, then Caitlin hisses, "I'm _busy_."

"With what?" Len asks skeptically. She still answered the phone, after all.

A moment's pause. "Wally and I are about to go into Zoom's lair."

"You _found_ it?"

"Yeah, I, uh, have a guide. Don't tell Barry! Zoom is tracking him. Uh. Apparently."

Mick is silently laughing.

Len closes his eyes. "Is your guide named Killer Frost?"

"...maybe."

"You know she works for Zoom, right?"

"We bonded! And – hey, cool, it's Ronnie! Er, Earth-2 Ronnie. Anyway, I have to go – "

"You know it's probably a trap, right – " Len starts, but she's already hung up. "Well, crap."

"They're _real_ good at this whole being subtle crap, ain't they, boss?" Mick says, shaking his head. 

"No kidding," Len sighs and redials. He feels like a goddamn telephone operator. Next rescue mission: conference call lines. "Cisco, send me the coordinates of either Caitlin's or Wally's phones. Preferably both. Then focus on saving Firestorm and, I don't know, send Barry out as a distraction. Zoom’s tracking him in specific."

He hangs up. "Wally first," he tells Mick. "Then back to Firestorm. At least Jax and Lisa are fine."

"I'll get a car running," Mick says.

"The jeep down the way still has its keys," a helpful ghost chimes in. 

"...well, _that_ takes all the fun out of it."


	23. 22

The ghosts follow them as they drive to the coordinates Cisco sends Len. It's creepy even to Len, and Len actually likes being surrounded by ghosts most of the time. 

Maybe it's how weirdly happy they are to see him.

"Did I draw every friendly in town or something?" Len muses as he watches the scenery go by. Mick's driving, of course. "What happened to the unquiet ones in this universe, anyway?"

"Oh, they're out there, they're just drowned out in the crowd and know that if they start shit, they’ll get ripped apart," Mick says. He sounds pleased by the idea. He _would_ be. "And it ain't all the ghosts in town."

"No?" Len asks, turning to look at Mick. "Certainly seems like it."

Mick shakes his head. "You're thinking too small. Think more like - state. Or bigger."

"That's impossible," Len objects. "I can’t manage that many ghosts."

"Right. And how would you know that?" Mick asks skeptically.

Len frowns at him. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Boss – you've told me about your curse and all that, right?"

"Yeah."

"Which you learned about from your mom before the unquiet dead got to her, right?"

"Yeah."

"She died in her early thirties, Lenny," Mick says, not without sympathy. "You've hit early forties – ten years older than she ever got. I think we're in uncharted territory."

"Dying in your thirties is unusually early for my family," Len protests, but he knows Mick has a point. "Mid-forties, early fifties, that's the norm, she said."

"Yeah," Mick says, "but who knows what your family members were capable of before they kicked the bucket? Certainly not _you_. The unquiet dead problem has been _less_ of a problem since even before I organized the friendlies into a guard line, not _more_ of one. You're not running out of life yet, even though you're getting closer and closer to your cut-off."

"Maybe it's an abrupt decline?" Len suggests, but he doesn't need Mick's increasingly more skeptical look to realize how dumb that sounds. He shrugs. "Dunno what to tell you, Mick. I got you; maybe I'm just lucky."

"Maybe it's time we try to find another one like you. Ask some questions. Get some answers."

"It ain’t like I haven't tried! It's just – wait. Are those _stairs_?"

Mick slows the jeep, which luckily enough is all-terrain since they've been going through forest for the last bit, to a stop. "Yeah," he says, staring ahead of them. "They definitely are. Stairs made of ice."

"Right," Len says, shaking his head even as he climbs out of the car and starts making his way towards the stairs on foot. _Metahumans_. It's like not a single one of them knows the meaning of the term 'subtlety' - even on another earth. At least his boots have decent treads. "Killer Frost, I assume."

"Yeah, I'm going first," Mick says, catching up quickly. "In case the stairs break."

"If they break," Len says drolly, "the ghosts will catch me."

"We definitely will," someone chimes in.

"Definitely!" another adds.

Len twitches. He did not need the reminder of their eavesdropping entourage; he's been trying to ignore them.

But up the stairs they go. The stairs _are_ starting to crack a bit, but Len's cold gun easily fixes them up. Such a useful weapon; he does so love it.

And then they're in.

"It's him!" other-Ronnie hisses, his arms wrapped protectively around a very pale – inhumanly pale – looking Caitlin, who's also apparently opted for the look of a very different type of professional. Since there's a normal looking Caitlin a few feet away, Len's going to assume the would-be hooker is Killer Frost.

It occurs to him that he's being rude, given that Lisa also has a fondness for dressing in a similarly revealing way and he'd punch anyone who made any implications about her, but he's had too many fights with Lisa on the subject to think of it as anything _other_ than hooker clothing. Not least of all because they'd gone out to a bar once and Lisa had in fact matched outfits with one of the hookers there...

Well, he just wouldn't say anything about it.

"Nice to see you again, Ronnie," Len says instead, opting to smirk at them both. "Caitlins, plural."

"You didn't have to come," Caitlin says peevishly. "It wasn't a trap, you know."

"Well. Actually, it kinda was," Killer Frost says, tone mostly coming off as seductive but also just the slightest bit apologetic. "But after Ronnie showed up in a panic, I decided to help you for real."

"...oh."

"Where's Wally?" Mick asks.

"He's in the back – we're trying to get Jesse out from the cage," Caitlin says. "We found Jesse, by the way! Of course, we found her in a cage..."

"I'll go check on 'em," Mick says. 

"You need to get the girl you were looking for and go back to your universe," Killer Frost says, watching Mick go purposefully towards the back of the cave-cum-hideout. " _Fast_."

"No can do," Len says, disliking the condescending way she was addressing him. "We've got a time-limited ride. What's the ambush?"

"What?"

"I can only assume you're concerned all of a sudden because Zoom has a plan to kill not just us, but also probably you two," Len drawls. "Possibly large swaths of the world. Who knows where the limits of your conscience are?" 

Killer Frost's eyes glow bright blue and she exhales frost. "Listen here, you little -"

"He controls _ghosts_ , Cait," Ronnie hisses. 

She pauses.

"It's true," Caitlin volunteers. "He does. It's...a little off-putting, not going to lie."

Len shrugs. With his battalion of ghosts still hovering around him, he's not disagreeing.

“Well, Frosty?” he says. “Zoom’s plan?”

“It's _Killer Frost_. And Zoom’s planning on leading his meta army against you at our Earth's STAR Labs,” Frost says, scowling. “He knows the majority of you, especially the Flash, are hiding out there. Your friends will be all barricaded in soon, and then –”

"Hey, boss!" Mick calls. "Got a problem!"

Len turns and goes after him without another word. Lacking anything else to do, the others all follow him.

And then they see -

"What the hell is _that_ ," Len says flatly. It's some sort of giant tesla coil loop-de-loop, right in the center of the room, except it's fastened to the wrists of the two people in what are quite literally _cages_ – a young girl, undoubtedly Jesse, and a man in an iron mask. 

Yes. A literal iron mask.

What the fuck _even_ , Earth-2! 

Seriously. This is just - this whole universe just abruptly moved beyond dystopia into sheer ridiculousness. Did they all suddenly get transported into a work of literature and not realize it? Is Earth-2 even a real place or is it actually some sort of nightmare-scape that they all need to be woken up from?

"It's a model," Killer Frost says frowning at the tesla coil.

"A _model_?" Mick asks. "That giant metal thing is a _model_?"

"Yes - I didn't realize before seeing this here today, but I’ve seen the design before. This is what Zoom's building over in McFeeny Commons. I don’t know exactly what it does, but I know he’s planning on using it against your friends from Earth-1 once it's complete."

While that area has long since been built over in Earth-1, Len remembers when Hillside used to be called McFeely Commons. If that's the same location as where it is in Len's world, it's not far away from the CCPD headquarters – and STAR Labs. 

No wonder there was an ambush waiting there. No way Zoom would risk letting them get anywhere near his plans before they were ready. 

"What's it do?" Len asks. 

"No idea," Ronnie says with a disinterested shrug. "Just that it'd be big and impressive."

“And probably kill a lot of people,” Killer Frost says. She’s playing it off like she’s cool with that – heh, _cool_ with that – but Len can see that she’s disturbed. Maybe it’s the idea of someone with her face dying.

Maybe the creepy crush Zolomon had been developing on their world’s Caitlin that has started seeping over to this world’s version. That'd be enough of a reason to be uncomfortable. 

“We should call Barry,” Caitlin says, pulling out her phone, only to frown at it a minute later. “He’s not answering.”

“I’m telling you,” Killer Frost says, crossing her arms. “They’ll be barricaded into STAR Labs by now. No way Zoom’s going to let them have _cell phone reception_.”

Caitlin reluctantly puts her phone away.

"I can't get the cage door open," Wally says from where he's kneeling by Jesse's cage. She's reached out and linked fingers with him, so clearly he's not been doing _nothing_. Go Wally. 

Len pulls out his cold gun. 

"What's that do?" Killer Frost asks. "Ice won't work."

"This gun doesn’t do _ice_ ," Len says. "It's _cold_."

"What if that machine is set to explode?" Ronnie demands. "It's attached to them. They shouldn't move."

"What's your bright idea then, bozo?" Mick snaps. "Give up and throw ourselves on Zoom's non-existent mercy like a bunch of sniveling cowards?"

Ronnie snarls and throws out his hand, fireball hitting Mick in the chest. 

Mick doesn't even pretend that it had any impact. 

"How –?"

"I'm a _ghost_ , you asshole," Mick growls, lifting his gun in response. It's instinct, when he's being threatened.

"Don't!" Caitlin shouts.

Mick hesitates.

Killer Frost doesn't. She throws ice, not fire, but she doesn't aim at Mick.

She aims at the machine.

There's an explosion of light.

Len automatically crouches down, bracing himself, but there's nothing.

He opens his eyes.

He's got a wall of ghosts between him – between the whole bunch of them that had been standing there, Len, Mick, Firestorm, Killer Frost and Caitlin, but not the ones who'd been closer to the machine – and the explosion. All suddenly visible, which means they grabbed power from Len, or from Mick, in order to defend him.

Killer Frost and evil Firestorm both look shaken at the sight of all those ghostly figures, as does Caitlin.

But Wally – Jesse had been attached to that thing, and he'd been holding her hand. They're both sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, as is the man in the iron mask. 

Len's eyes narrow in anger. He presses his lips together as he turns to look at Killer Frost and the evil Earth-2 version of Firestorm. 

The ones to blame for this.

"Grab them," he orders.

His ghosts are more than happy to comply.

"Oh god," Killer Frost says. Apparently ghosts are enough to disrupt her chill. "Let go of me!" Clearly not for very long, though.

"Mick," Len says.

"On it," Mick says, already heading over and kneeling by Wally. "I've got a heartbeat, but it's fast. Girl's, too."

"Right," Len says. "Enough of these cages." 

He fires his cold gun. As Killer Frost predicted, ice didn't work, but his gun is not anything so meager as ice. The atoms slow and their connections become brittle. 

A mere flick of the finger is enough to shatter the walls of the cage. 

The man in the iron mask groans.

"Get the mask off of him," Len says. "Check for traps, first."

Mick checks it over. "Nothing," he says, and pulls the mask off.

It's -

" _Doc Allen_?" Len says, not without some disbelief. 

"What the hell's _he_ doing here?" Mick grunts.

"I don't know him," Killer Frost says, abandoning her struggles to stare.

Mick slaps the guy. Rude, but it works – he starts to stir.

Slowly, at first, then urgently, like he just remembered something.

"The children," he gasps. "Were they hit?"

"Yeah, and now they're out," Mick says. "What was that?"

"It's a transmitter," the guy says. "Zoom's been using it to steal the Speed Force from me, transfer it into him."

"You're kidding me," Len says flatly. "You telling me Earth-2 _Henry Allen_ is the Flash? I thought Jay Garrick was the Flash."

"No, you don't understand," the guy says. " _I'm_ Jay Garrick, not Henry Allen. And I'm from – well, I guess you'd call it Earth-3."

"Great," Mick grumbles. " _More_ worlds."

"So Zoom _is_ Zolomon," Len says. "Not just a patsy. Good to know."

"But you said –" Ronnie starts.

"I lie," Len says. "You'll do well to notice that. Did the transmitter harm them?"

"I don't know," Jay says. "It works on dark matter, like the Particle Accelerator did; I don't know what would happen if it got transferred to a non-speedster."

"Why were they hooked up, then?" Caitlin asks.

Jay looks nauseated. "Because it's not just set up to transfer Speed Force anymore," he says. "It's designed to pull out _life_ force. Ever since Zoom found this guy to help him – someone from your world –"

Len feels a cold shiver roll down his spine. "Name of Cabrera, I’m gonna guess," he says, because he’s not lucky enough for it _not_ to be that bastard.

It's not really a question, but Jay nods anyway. 

"Shit," Mick says, twisting to look at Len with concern in his eyes. "Thought he'd be drained dry, boss; you said – "

"I said that was the _goal_ ," Len says. "Not that we got confirmation it _succeeded_. Garrick, tell me - how old would you say the guy looked? Forties?"

"No, much older. He was sixties at least – grey skin, wrinkles, white hair. Like he'd had a hard life."

"He was forties when I saw him," Len says. "And his hair was black." 

"And something you did drained the _life_ out of him?" Killer Frost asks. She sounds impressed.

"He did it to himself," Len corrects. "I just trapped him in it a little longer than he'd like." He considers the matter for a minute. "He's probably real pissed at me."

"You _think_?!" Mick snarls.

"What effect would it have?" Caitlin interrupts. "This – life-draining. How would Wally and Jesse be affected? They don't look any older." 

"I don't know," Jay says. "I don't think – I think I was still on the draining end, not them; he hadn’t swapped it yet. That was going to be later today. And I have the Speed Force, which I think immunizes me from the life-draining aspects. As a speedster, I heal fast too fast, even without my powers."

"You think this is another method to steal B – uh, the Flash's speed?" Caitlin asks Len.

Len purses his lips. That doesn’t seem right. "If he can do that with the model," he says, "why's he need the big one? And why modify it to drain life, as well?"

"From what I’ve seen of Zoom’s experiments, in order to be effective on non-speedsters, the machine needs to be powered somehow, and the only way I've seen Zoom power it is by using the Speed Force," Jay says. "Unfortunately, it takes a _lot_ of Speed Force energy to power it; it can drain you almost entirely, up to and sometimes past the point of death. Up until now, Zoom's been using duplicates of himself -"

"Duplicates?" Caitlin asks, alarmed.

"Knew it," Mick says.

"You run fast enough to travel in time, but only a second into the future, thus creating a time duplicate of yourself," Jay explains.

"But that would mean he's killing versions of himself," Killer Frost says, disgusted. "By putting them in the machine. Why would the versions of himself _agree_ to that?"

"I told you, babe, he's totally nuts," Ronnie tells her. 

She looks distressed, or at least Len thinks she does under all that make-up. She clearly had more faith in Zoom than Ronnie did.

“Jay, that sound about right?” Len asks.

Jay nods. “I’ve seen them talk,” he says. “He convinces his future self to sacrifice themselves, and they do it. He’s…not stable.”

“No kidding,” Mick says.

"So if what you’re saying is true, he won't be able to power a larger version of the machine by himself. That means he'll need another speedster, and the only other one available is Barry," Caitlin intervenes, gnawing at her lower lip. “He's planning on using Barry to power the machine, somehow. We need to tell Barry –”

“Barry’ll be barricaded in at STAR Labs at this point,” Len points out. “What can Zoom do to Barry while he's still in there?”

"Zoom said something about a race," a young female voice says.

They all twist to look. Jesse's woken up; she's rubbing her face. "Zoom, I mean. A race through the machine. That’s his plan."

Wally is waking up as well; a small weight lifted off Len's shoulders. He's glad they're all right and seemingly unaffected by the burst of dark matter. 

"So, Zoom gets Barry to agree to race him through the machine; that way they both power it," Mick says. "But who's it meant to drain?"

"Everybody," Jay says.

"When you say everybody –"

"I mean, _everybody_." Jay swallows, his face gone pale. "Making the machine as large as I gather he's making it...he'll drain your friend to the death, and pour in just about everything he's got and what he's taken from me, too. Life-draining...Zoom's aiming to drain the life out of the whole _city_. After that, the state – maybe, eventually, this entire world."

"He says it'll make him fast enough to run through the breaches to another world," Jesse says, sounding numb. "He boasted about it to me, when he was filming me to taunt my dad. He says there are endless worlds – and he'll drain each one before moving on to the next one."

Len's mouth is dry at the thought of it. So many dead, all at once. So many regrets, so many lives unfinished. A world of ghosts, and no one to give them life, no one to help them across.

Cabrera said that he trapped ghosts in order to use them, he recalls. There's got to be something in this wretched plan for him, though; unless he's gone mad enough to share his secrets for a revenge he doesn't know if he'll ever get. Unless...

"It steals life, this machine?" he asks Jesse.

"Yeah," Jesse says.

"And converts it into – what?"

"I don't know," she says. "Speed Force, I guess." She shrugs. "I don't think it'll be able to drain the world or even the city all at once, though. It'd start local, then spread, assuming it's still powered. A whole world – I feel like you'd need a much bigger machine. Power is power, even if it's weird. This thing shouldn’t go beyond state lines – not that that’s not a horrific concept…"

“But what’s this other guy’s angle?” Killer Frost asks, frowning. “No one gives away intel that results in mass murder for free.”

“Not unless they’re just as crazy as Zoom,” Ronnie says. “Or they have something to gain.”

“The latter one’s what I’m worried about,” Len says.

"Zoom wants the Flash's power to make his machine go," Mick says, looking at Len. "You think Cabrera's still after yours?"

Len opens his mouth to dispute it, but then stalls, looking around at the crowd of ghosts that followed him in. He does nothing for them, he's _done_ nothing for them, but they have no other hope and so they come to him. The come to him, they help him, they _want_ to help him. Willingly and eagerly and desperately. Even now, they look hopefully at him, just for the life that rolls off of him like an exhale.

Imagine what they'd do for him if he offered to actually give them some.

A whole world of ghosts.

A whole world of _slaves_. 

"Yeah," Len says grimly. "I think if Cabrera had my power and a reservoir of life force – _life_ , not Speed Force – then he'd have enough juice to keep Zoom happy, and enough left over to power an entire _army_ of ghosts to be at his beck and call. All the power Cabrera’s ever wanted and couldn’t get."

"Shit," Mick says.

"That's awful," Caitlin says. Even Killer Frost is silent, the sheer scale of murder stunning even her into silence. 

"I knew it," Ronnie says bitterly into the silence. "I told you, didn’t I, Cait? I _told you_ Zoom was planning to kill us all. This just proves it. Who needs a meta army if you have a ghost army?"

A heartbeat passes, and then Len and Mick both abruptly turn towards each other, the same idea lighting up both their eyes.

"Boss," Mick says. 

"I couldn't for long," Len says. "Earth-2 needs more from me to do anything. But – I think I could do it."

"Guys?" Caitlin says. "What are you talking about?"

"What's the plan?" Wally asks, more accustomed to their disjointed ways of talking, the effects of nearly thirty years together. 

"You know how Barry and the others are probably even now being barricaded into STAR Labs by the army of metas?" Len asks. 

"Yeah."

"Well, as Ronnie here says," Len nods at him, "What's the only thing better than an army of metas?"

"You think you can use your ghosts as an _army_ against Zoom's army?" Caitlin asks, brightening.

"Well," Len says. "Only one way to find out."


	24. 23

"I hate this plan, boss," Mick says.

"I know," Len says. 

"I _really_ hate this plan."

"If they think about betraying us, you can rip their heads off their spines," Len says comfortingly. He knows it's not much, but it's what they've got. 

Mick grumbles, but seems appeased.

Killer Frost glares at them both.

"You are going to behave," Len tells her. "You're going to drive us straight to Zoom's trap and then you're going to let us go, and if you do anything that threatens _any_ of us, I won't give you to Mick, I'll rip the still-twitching spirit out of your body and add you to my army of ghosts."

Killer Frost sniffs in disdain and stalks away, but Len can see that the threat is effective. She'll behave.

"Can you really do that?" Caitlin asks in a murmured undertone.

"Obviously not," Len replies in a similarly low tone. "How many times do I gotta tell you? I ain't a necromancer."

The look Caitlin gives him is less than entirely believing, but whatever. 

"I can't believe we're going up against Zoom with nothing more than a guy who controls ghosts, his ghost sidekick and a _purely theoretical_ ghost army, an inferior version of Cait, two kids and an old man who _used_ to be a speedster," evil-version Ronnie grumbles. Len refuses to call him by his stupid alias - Deathstorm or something ridiculously metal like that. Just - no. Firestorm is at least thematic. 

"It'll come back," Jay says mildly. He doesn't take offense easy. Probably for the best, since Mick's looking like he's considering breaking Ronnie's nose for that 'sidekick' comment. 

Len kicks Mick lightly in the shin. They don't have time for that. 

"And you're forgetting we have the team at STAR Labs," Wally says. He's holding hands with Jesse.

Given Harry's almost painful over-the-top paternalism and somewhat ( _somewhat_ ) reasonable over-protectiveness, given that she'd been kidnapped and everything, Len is in favor of letting their little fledgling flirtation go on just long enough for Harry to react to the fact that the Earth-1 team he's so fond of disparaging not only saved his daughter, but got her a boyfriend in the process. 

Oh, sure, there's the Earth-1/Earth-2 gap to consider, but Wally’s already said a few vague things about how he’s sure Cisco can come up with some sort of cross-dimensional pen-pal system. Len's sure they can sell it enough to get the horrified expression he's hoping for.

It won't _last_ , of course. It's very cute and all that - very Florence Nightingale style get-together, right out of a romance novel – but there's no chance of it going anywhere other than a handful of dates. Not only is cross-universe dating probably unwise, but he thinks Jessie's interest is likely to die a quick death once she has a chance to see Wally and Jax do their ridiculous pining-and-sighing-and-always-talking-about-each-other-but-never-manning-up-to-ask-the-other-out mating dance in person. 

Actually, maybe this whole sudden girlfriend business will finally be the thing that gets them going and, with luck, put all the adults in their general vicinity out of their endless misery that is their teenage drama. 

By adults, Len mostly means him and Mick. Lisa does not count - she likes drama - and Team Flash doesn't actually have any responsibility for the Junior Rogues, since they're on Team Villain instead of Team Hero. Not that Team Flash is without its own ridiculously juvenile relationship drama...

(Len can say, very definitively, that he was _definitely_ not this bad as a teenager, Mick’s snarky comments about the necessity of near-death experiences for certain confessions of feelings aside. He would _totally_ have gotten there regardless, _Mick._ )

"Oh, yeah," Killer Frost drawls. "Team Flash at STAR Labs. How could I forget? A speedster Zoom's already beaten, Reverb's duplicate except minus most of the powers, another kid and a dying _half_ of Firestorm. What joy. We're definitely going to win now."

"Don't be so hard on yourselves," Mick says pleasantly. "We got you two, too."

"Screw you," evil Ronnie replies. "We're going to be the first ones Zoom kills, that's what you mean. He hates traitors."

Len rolls his eyes. "Stop whining. First off, he was planning on murdering everybody, you included, _anyway_ , so stopping him is really your only option here. Second, it's not like you're going to be walking up and spitting in his face or anything. I already told you, your job will be to get Caitlin, Wally, Jesse and Jay into STAR Labs; that's it."

"I don't like that part of the plan," Wally offers. 

"Yeah," Jesse chimes in. "We can help you fight Zoom, really we can."

"And you will," Len says. "By going to STAR Labs and letting the other guys know our plan so that we ain't the only ones going up against Zoom. We're gonna need Barry and everyone there."

Wally and Jesse still look disappointed.

"Besides," Mick grunts. "Bet there's lots of anti-speedster guns at STAR Labs. You need to go there to pick 'em up."

The disappointed looks vanish.

Len snorts. "Did you think I'd go into a battlefield against an overwhelming enemy without using you on my side?" he asks. "I ain't _that_ nice."

"You're the _best_ , boss," Wally says gleefully. He's going to use this as a defense when Team Flash predictably starts suggesting that maybe he and Jax should stay behind, which is just what Len intends. He may've promised Jenna to keep Jax out of trouble, but there's promises and then there's not using what you've got, and between the two Len will always pick survival. "Just, uh, y'know – try not to die. Please."

"I'll do my best," Len says dryly.

"I won't let him," Mick promises.

"Good luck," Jay says. “Is there anything I can do?”

"You, you just get your power back asap," Len tells him. "And worst case scenario, just show up at some point; maybe you can distract Zoom with the realization that you're free. It'll probably piss him off, but even a temporary distraction might be helpful."

"I'm on it," Jay says. He even _salutes_ , what the hell.

Mick and Len exchange looks of disbelief. Len might be planning on commanding an army of ghosts, but that doesn't mean that he has any actual military or command experience of the sort that would get people saluting. 

Earth-3 must be _so weird_.

They drop their crew off near the edge of the mob of metas surrounding STAR Labs. The initial burst of curiosity from the metas rioting there is dampened, and quickly, at the sight of Killer Frost emerging from the car, sneer firmly fixed on her face. After that, no one even bothers to look at the people she's escorting with her and Ronnie.

It's good to have a reputation, and Len knows just how to play with one that’s based on fear.

The rest of the group dropped off, Len and Mick head to McFeeny Commons, and Zoom's machine.

The ghosts come with them, like a flock of pigeons that is endless in number. They say nothing; they don’t need to, not anymore. They know where they're going, and they know what Len's going to ask of them, and they're focused on storing up what energy they can for the upcoming battle. They’re eager for it, too – regardless of how militant they may or may not have been in life, many of them have forgotten what it was that kept them there originally, what small fears or loves or regrets they had in life. Now all they want is attention, and life, and maybe a small bit of revenge against the living for having what they want, and Len has promised all of that to them in exchange for their help. 

He wouldn’t order them into battle, not like Cabrera would, forcing them to go against their own desires – but he’s asked, and they’ve consented.

For whatever consent is worth when you’re that desperate, anyway. 

Len _isn’t_ a necromancer, master of the unwilling dead, but sometimes it feels a far too much like it for his taste. 

He comforts himself with the fact that he offered to give them life regardless of their participation in the battle, and with the thought that this battle will likely enable most of them to pass on – one last glorious action that means something, that _makes a difference_ , is likely enough satisfaction for the majority of them, and between the life he’s going to give them and the power stored up in Zoom’s machine, the rest should be able to go make their goodbyes or whatever it is that they’ve wanted so much that they refused to pass on – but it’s rather a cold comfort. 

He doesn't even have it in him to smile at the pun. 

He is _not_ a necromancer, damnit.

"You sure Zoom'll draw away his army from STAR Labs to protect the machine?" Mick asks, distracting Len from his gloomy thoughts. It's not doubt that makes Mick ask it, since he already knows the plan backwards and forwards; no, he knows that Len prefers to talk things over a few times in the immediate build-up, and he prefers not to let Len brood.

He's the best partner a man could ask for, really. 

"He's gotta," Len says, shaking his head to dispel his thoughts. He needs to focus, or else he won't be able to do this. "Or else all that effort to build this machine is for nothing. This whole thing is a trap - STAR Labs, the army, everything, and it's almost certainly one that he had to accelerate, or may be even come up with on the fly, ever since we found out about who 'Jay Garrick' really is earlier than he'd probably hoped. Accelerated plans mean mistakes, no matter how good your strategic planning is."

"An army goes a long way to mitigate any mistakes."

"True. But that's why we're bringing our own."

"Which is going to drain you real bad," Mick says, and here, at last, his voice shows traces of real concern. "I know it's necessary - we don't got anything else that'd work against an army - but I don't like how it's going to affect you. And with you being drained, that makes you vulnerable - I'd rather be at your side the whole time, protecting you, if I could be. S'why I don't like that the plan has me going the other way."

"I know."

"Boss. I'm serious. If there are unquiet dead out there, that's when they're gonna strike."

"I know," Len says again, not unkindly. It distresses him too, the thought of sending away his oldest and best protector. If there was any other way, he wouldn't do it. "But we don't have a choice. Zoom will figure out eventually that I'm the one at the center - sooner than that, if he's really working with Cabrera, since Cabrera would've already told him who I am and what I can do - and after he figures that out, he'll come for me. You're the only one strong enough to keep him from actually _getting_ me."

Mick nods jerkily. "I can hold him off," he says. "At least until Barry comes."

"Until then."

They park not far away from McFeeny Commons. "You know what's one thing that really gets me about this Earth?" Len asks, studying the unfamiliar sign bearing the familiar name. 

"What?"

"This place. Goddamn McFeeny Commons."

Mick arches an eyebrow. "Okay. McFeeny Commons, yeah, same as what this place used to be called back on our Earth. What about it?"

"The _name_. According to the ghosts, the whole city gets leveled and they rebuild the whole damn thing from scratch, starting all brand new, and when they do, they deliberately decide to _keep naming things_ after that cow-fucker, of all people? I mean, seriously. Have some _dignity_ , Central City."

Mick laughs, big belly laughs, and Len smiles.

They get out of the car, guns in their hands, and they start walking. 

They make it all the way to about a hundred yards from the machine before they run into Zoom's perimeter guards.

"You can't come here," the guy at the head of the group says. The others behind him have sticks and nasty grins, like they're just waiting for an excuse to use them. Thugs and vandals and assholes, the bread and butter of any violent group. "Don't take another step."

Len shoots the leader point-blank with the cold gun. "Yeah?" he asks with a smirk, looking with pleasure at the frozen statute. "Who's gonna stop me?"

The others howl in rage and charge right at them.

Right into the blast of Mick's heat-gun.

Then the ones still alive are charging straight the other way, screaming and patting down their clothing to try to put out the fire.

"Soon," Len tells Mick, who nods.

They keep going forward. 

They make it nearly two-thirds of the final distance when there's a crackle of blue lightning and the man of the hour himself appears before them.

Zoom.

Len's only seen images until now, videos and stuff – his fight with Barry, his threats. The real thing is –

"Is that a discount scarecrow mask or something?" he asks, keeping his voice as cool and disdainful as he can. And as many people would attest, he can do pretty damn disdainful. "Rob a Party City, maybe?"

"You're friends of the Flash," Zoom snarls, his voice guttural and slimy. “He sent you to die, did he?”

Len rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “We’re here to blow up your little Lego project.” He nods at the machine.

Zoom laughs. “All you will be,” he says, “is _dead_.”

“You talk like a bad movie villain,” Len says, and waits for Zoom’s jaw to work a little, signifying that he’s opening his mouth for a retort – it’s hard to tell under the weird jagged Oogie Boogey slashes he’s got instead of a mouth, but it's still tight enough that he can make a decent guess – before firing straight at him with his cold gun. 

Zoom hisses and staggers back, hands flying to his belly where the ice still lingers.

Len smiles. “Oh, and this?” he says, hoisting his cold gun. “This I use against the Flash. They work real well on speedsters - of _all_ colors.”

“Time to play,” Mick says, and fires his own gun, this time aiming at Zoom’s feet. 

Zoom zips backwards, but the smears on the ground indicate that Mick and Cisco’s modifications to amp up the heat have worked – the speedster's boots are starting to melt. 

“You _dare_ challenge me,” he snarls.

“Oh, I don’t just dare,” Len says. “I’m gonna kick your ass in front of all of your buddies, half of which already got their phones out and are texting the rest of your so-called army that the big, bad, scary Zoom can be beaten by a pair of _non-metas_.” His smirk widens. “Hope you liked your five minutes of fame, Zoom-Zoom. No one likes a loser.”

Mick starts firing his heat gun in a horizontal line in front of them, cutting off Zoom’s approach before Zoom even starts running forward, forcing him to dart backwards instead of rushing forward the way he'd started to. 

Half of fighting a speedster, Len’s found, is predicting in advance what he’s going to do, and Zoom is even more predictable than Barry.

The bit about the cell phones isn't even a lie, either; Len can hear the local lieutenants shouting on their phone for back-up.

Perfect. 

“Zoom-Zoom,” Mick says thoughtfully, without ceasing his defensive line of fire. “Ain’t that a car commercial or something?”

“You’re right,” Len says, delighted. It hadn't even occurred to him. “It _is_. Well. It _was_. It got old and tired, and the company retired it.”

“A lot like how we’re gonna retire this guy,” Mick quips back.

Len and Mick have always known how to play off each other. 

“You won’t be able to stop me,” Zoom hisses, his eyes literally crackling with lightning and rage. It's a pretty cool effect, actually; Len will have to remember to recommend it to Barry. “Your deaths will be slow and painful just for _considering_ going up against me - I will make you _pay_!”

“Sure you will," Mick sneers. "You're never gonna get the chance."

"We’re gonna kick your ass,” Len promises. "And then we're gonna take your stupid little machine apart."

Zoom laughs, that slimy almost auto-tuned quality to his voice particularly grating on the ears. “You? _You_ , the mere two of you, take apart my great work?” he says disdainfully. “You and what army?”

Mick groans.

It doesn’t matter, though. Len’s _never_ been able to resist a set up like that one.

He reaches deep within himself, aiming for all the life he's got, all the power, anything he thinks he can use up without actually killing himself in the process.

“This one,” he says, and _flings_ the power out, pouring it out in the widest possible stream. He’s never done anything like this before, not intentionally – the closest was when he was facing the black hole, when his desperation made him over-extend himself, when he tried to get everyone to help and did. This is different. This is a deliberate over-extension, a deliberate effort made to ghosts that aren't even of the same Earth as he is, a different harder-to-use frequency, all of that life handed out not to one or two or even a dozen, but to _hundreds_. 

To an _army_.

And then they’re all there, visible for all to see.

The dead.

The _ghosts_.

Hundreds of them, _thousands_ of them, even, as the hundreds which received the life directly from Len share it onwards and onwards, stretching it to its breaking point, all of them floating around the battlefield. Each one of them as silent as the grave, the vast sea of the dead that washed in upon Len’s feet when he entered Earth-2. A city – a country – a _world_ deprived of people like Len, life-sharers and dead-speakers, a crowd of ghosts so hungry for life that they would give Len anything: their obedience, their loyalty, their strength, their viciousness, their _rage_ at being deprived of the life they so eagerly covet. 

Len’s never met a ghost that wasn’t, deep down, furious at their life being cut short, whether or not it was their natural time, and that rage, when unleashed, can turn even the kindest ghostly apparition into the most malicious poltergeist. 

Their rage spills out before them, palpable in its intensity, their faces twisting envy into anger as they snarl at their prey, eyes avid with jealous greed for the life of the living, and they stand there at Len’s beck and call. He can’t help the feeling it gives him: like a general before his men, a king before his subjects. These are his people, _his_ , and they obey him. They will fight for _him_. 

His army, to match Zoom’s. 

To _overwhelm_ Zoom's.

For unlike Zoom's army of metas, his is an army of people who cannot die, for they are already dead.

Even Zoom takes a step back, his hooded eyes gone wide. His minions all stand slack-jawed.

Len points forward, ignoring the weakness that already runs through his bones. “Get them,” he says, and his voice echoes with the power of the dead, “and destroy the machine.”

Thousands of mouths open, then, and scream- howling and shrieking with unearthly rage - and the ghostly army advances in a charge that easily be compared to any of history’s greatest infantry charges. 

_His_ army charges. 

A good half of Zoom’s minions just drop their weapons and flee right then and there. 

“You!” Zoom exclaims. “The necromancer!”

Len scowls, because he’s _not_ a goddamn necromancer, but, perhaps more importantly, because that rather abruptly makes that lovely heady feeling of ultimate power go away like having a bucket of water poured over him. Zoom knows who he is, he knew to expect him - that confirms Len's fears, insofar as they weren’t already confirmed. Cabrera is in fact working with Zoom, feeding him intel. Zoom knew something of the _what_ of Len, but he didn’t know what he looked like. 

Not until now.

Zoom’s lightning flashes and he’s charging straight at Len.

He gets within three feet of Len before Mick intervenes, charging him straight on like a bull, head-butting him right in the chest.

Mick always did have a hard head.

Zoom staggers back and Mick takes advantage of his momentary disorientation, seizing onto Zoom’s arms and wrapping himself around the speedster like a bear. 

Zoom snarls and grabs at Mick’s neck, snapping it in a sudden twist. 

“Nice try, bozo,” Mick snarls. “I died long ago.” 

He doesn’t let go.

Just as they’d hoped, with his primary approach to dealing with people down, Zoom doesn’t take the time to think about how to fix this. Instead, he goes straight to his secondary approach.

He runs, lightning crackling, trying to shake Mick loose.

Mick is very, _very_ determined not to let him, as the only thing that’s keeping Zoom from actually dealing with the root of the problem – namely Len – is Mick’s efforts at distracting him.

Len can hear Mick’s laughter fading as Zoom speeds off into the distance.

Going in the direction of STAR Labs – and the bulk of his army. 

“Get as much of the machine deconstructed as you can before he gets back here with the rest of them,” Len orders, and the ghosts obey gleefully.

Meanwhile, Len takes a moment to steady himself on his feet. He’s feeling – 

Well, he’s not dead from over-extension. That’s a point in his favor. He’d been half-afraid that’d happen if he tried this, not that he’d mentioned that fear to Mick, but apparently he judged the amount of power just right. 

The rest of the signs, though, are not so good. He’s nauseous, light-headed, and his vision's gone a bit blurry; his knees are a bit shaky, and he doesn’t want to even _think_ about powering up another ghost for a good long while. He’s almost certainly managed to become both dehydrated and starving in the space of a few seconds. 

Even though it offends his sense of drama, Len pulls out one of the energy bars that Mick had insisted on swiping for him and a bottle of water and starts to snack. In the middle of a battlefield.

Wow, that really just kills the drama and mystique of the whole thing. 

Heh. _Kills_. Kinda funny when you're talking about an unkillable army.

Len tries to pull off an aura of ‘I have so much nonchalant disdain for this whole business that I’m taking a light snack break’ instead of ‘wow I’m really hungry right now I’m going to eat my lunch early’, but he’s not sure how well it’s working. If anyone's even looking, that is.

He manages to finish two energy bars and half a bottle of water before the army of metas pours out of the side streets, their hands flashing with all sorts of bizarre powers, and he decides maybe getting the hell out of dodge is the better plan.

Despite not ever having strong opinions on the subject of war prior to this moment, Len’s decided that he’s a big believer in the whole concept of leading from behind. Or the side. Or anywhere that isn’t the front of the army, really. Armies of untouchable ghosts really do _not_ need to be led in person by their squishy entirely-too-easy-to-harm human leader. 

Luckily, the ghosts don’t bother looking to him for directions - a handful of ghosts have taken some form of command almost automatically, including the man and woman in green from earlier - and they're doing just fine. The ghostly army just swings right back around and hits the onrushing metas like a shockwave.

Len takes the opportunity to head to higher ground. In this case, there’s a garage right across the street with a roof on the second story; he’ll be able to look out at the battlefield there. Maybe shout out something helpful without being in anyone’s direct line of fire or something like that. 

He has literally zero clue if that would be a good idea, but he’s seen it done in movies before, so - maybe? 

Probably a sign that it’s a _bad_ idea, come to think of it, since Hollywood isn't exactly what one would call accurate, but what the hell, he’s already picked the lock on the garage door; he’s committed to the plan now. 

Besides, once he’s on the roof, he can sit down and take a break.

The roof should be safe enough.


	25. 24

Climbing the stairs takes more out of him than Len would really like to admit. He’s goddamn exhausted. 

He does eat another energy bar, though.

When he comes out on the roof, he can see the layout of the battle with a bit more clarity. 

His ghosts are split into two groups – the ones still happily whaling away at the machine, likely the less violently inclined ones getting their feelings out on inanimate objects, while the rest have rushed the meta army. It’s an interesting fight to watch: the metas have all sorts of fascinating powers, a positive zoo of them on display, but Len’s ghosts are, well, ghosts. 

You can light them on fire, you can electrocute them, you can blow them up, you can spin them around like a top, but they don’t care. They’re already dead. 

You can’t hurt what’s already dead.

Unfortunately, Len can see the impact the metas are having in return: Len only has so much life to give to his ghosts, and while they’re all currently at the poltergeist level or so, the most enthusiastic-but-unskilled ones are quickly using up everything he’s given them, fading back into apparitions or even just shades. They’re often able to remain visible, using the dregs of his life to sustain themselves on the visible spectrum, but they’re entirely insubstantial. 

Not that being insubstantial makes them useless, of course: no one enjoys having a ghost run straight through you, regardless of whether they can hurt you or not. Several of the ghosts have figured it out, apparitions tag-teaming with the poltergeists, the apparitions running forward as a distraction and the poltergeist hitting when the meta turns to confront the weaker ghost. 

Not bad. 

He can also see blue lightning zipping around the field, throwing itself at various things – Zoom, running, Mick holding on like a terrier with something in its teeth. With any luck, they'll be able to dismantle portions of the machine before –

"Hello, Leonard."

Len doesn't let the creaky old voice phase him, rising to his feet, turning and firing the cold gun in a single motion.

The beam splatters uselessly at Cabrera's feet.

And it _is_ Cabrera, filthy teeth and bug-like eyes, for all that he’s barely recognizable. He looks terrible. His formerly black hair has gone white and wispy, although it's as lanky and foul-smelling as ever, and his skin is not merely sallow but grey, hanging off his flesh loosely, wrinkles crackling throughout like a broken pavement. Even one of his eyes has gone cloudy and blind.

"You're looking well," Len drawls, shutting off the cold gun’s beam. He's not sure what Cabrera is using to protect himself – some sort of force-field, maybe an Earth-2 invention – but there's no point in wasting the charge. "And how's old Don Tomio doing?"

Cabrera's face twists for a second, ugly with rage, but he pulls himself back together a second later, which is a lot sooner than Len would like. "I've banished him," he says. His voice sounds – wrong. Creaky, almost static-y, like he's talking through a filter. "Bet you didn't think I could do that, huh, necromancer?"

Len takes a careful step to the side, making it seem casual, keeping Cabrera in his sights at all times. Cabrera's eyes follow him, but he does nothing.

Static could mean any number of things. Some effect of the medium's power, perhaps, or of the horrible drain that he endured. Or maybe, it's a result of the force-field protecting him.

But one thing that's interesting: on Earth-2, with all its technology, Len has yet to see any force-fields.

He has, however, seen the glorious advertisements that project themselves into the air in front of billboards, dancing girls and laughing men and funny animals, all in 3D so realistic you can’t even tell it’s fake. There's one right behind Cabrera even now, though it's off.

_Looks_ off.

"I'd hoped. But I suppose you can’t have everything in life," Len replies smoothly, strolling casually as he can manage to a better position. He's almost there when a sudden stab of weakness reminds him why he was sitting down in the first place. He stumbles – not much, barely noticeable, but enough for Cabrera to see.

"Not doing so good yourself, are you?" Cabrera crows, smiling. "An army – I wouldn't have thought you had it in you, necromancer. This is far more impressive than your stunt with the black hole, and I'd only heard rumors of that."

"I'm fine," Len says shortly. "More than can be said for you. How many years did Tomio take from you? Fifteen? Twenty? Thirty?"

Cabrera's bad eye twitches. "It doesn't matter," he says. "I drove him out, in the end. And soon enough I'll have enough power to do as I like."

"I may be ignorant," Len says, "but even I know it doesn't work that way. You don't get years _back_."

Cabrera coughs, hacking and wet. "Maybe not," he says. "But we both know that's not _entirely_ true."

Len sneers. "Oh, sure," he says. "To live a few extra years in the hell of your own making – what sort of life is that?"

"As your ghosts will tell you," Cabrera says, "any life is better than none."

Len shakes his head. His mother had told him of it, warned him; Cabrera's crazy if he thinks _that's_ a life.

That was the fate Cabrera had had in mind for Len, after all, him and Tomio. After all, you didn't just get to steal a name out of the black book, a true resurrection, without consequences, and it’d just be way too easy to be able to get out of those consequences just by ending your life. Once you’re in that hell, you have to be killed, and that isn’t as easy as it sound. 

"It doesn't matter, Cabrera," Len says. "Unless you're planning to actually come out here in person to fight me, instead of through that hologram, I don't see why I should care what you have to say."

Cabrera laughs. "Oh, you _are_ a clever boy," he says. "Clever and wicked; the best sort."

"I'll take the compliment under consideration, given that you tried to _eat my life_ ," Len shoots back.

"Consider it a compliment."

"Consider what Tomio did to you a makeover."

“You will run out of power soon, my boy,” Cabrera says, sneering. “Your army is weakening; soon they will be nothing but shades, and you with nothing but the last remnants of your life to repower them.”

“Maybe,” Len says. “But either way, _you_ won’t get a drop of it.”

Cabrera’s eyes narrow. 

Len knows he needs to keep his eyes on Cabrera, but he can’t resist his eyes flickering to the battlefield – to see if the army was failing, to see if Zoom’s lightning was still going everywhere to try to shake off Mick –

Cabrera strikes.

Or rather, not Cabrera.

A fucking _boomerang_ of all things flies out of nowhere and hits Len’s cold gun dead on, causing it to spark, forcing him to drop it and jump out of the way as it ices the whole rooftop. 

Cabrera’s hologram blips out when the ice hits a hidden generator, knocking it out, and now Len can see them. They were standing next to some sort of high-tech police shield; that was what had protected them, not a force-field. It’s Cabrera and another guy with boomerangs strapped all over his chest, smirking as he holds up his hand to catch the one that disabled Len’s weapon.

“Get him,” Cabrera rasps, but Len went for his back-up gun the second the cold gun fell.

He only has enough time to shoot one of them before they duck back behind the shield. 

He picks the guy with the boomerangs.

Len knows it’s foolish to disregard Cabrera as a threat, but his instincts say that while Cabrera might have some sort of magical trap that Len doesn’t know set up, a ranged weapon is a ranged weapon. And a ranged weapon is something to be feared in the hands of someone with the skills to use it.

That’s something that boomerang-guy should have thought of, Len thinks, watching the man’s body fall to the ground with a bullet hole right between his eyes.

Len’s always had good aim.

Cabrera’s behind the shield before Len can get off a second shot, and he’s laughing. 

That’s – not a good sign.

Len eyes the cold gun, but it’ll need some serious repairs before he can get it working again. Goddamn boomerangs. If he ever finds his world’s version of this guy, he’s going to punch him in the face and never explain why. _Especially_ if he has boomerangs.

He takes a careful step forward, then staggers as he’s hit with a wave of weakness. 

“You’ve over-extended, necromancer,” Cabrera gloats. “Your life drains away each second. And then you will die –”

“So I die,” Len says, rolling his eyes. “Big deal. And for the last goddamn time, I ain’t a goddamn necromancer.”

“Call it what you will,” Cabrera says. “But the blood of your victim binds you no matter what you name yourself.”

His victim?

Len’s eyes dart to the bloody pool that spreads beneath boomerang guy’s corpse. The blood spreads easily on the icy surface of the roof, but what catches Len’s eye is the faint light _under_ the ice.

A circle.

_Mediums_. 

Len should’ve guessed the second he saw Cabrera. The weasel would never have confronted Len if he didn’t have some sort of plan.

“My victim, huh,” Len drawls. “Bet you didn’t tell boomerang boy about that part of your plan. Needed human blood to activate your circle, huh? Pigs not doing it for you anymore?”

Cabrera laughs, high and cracked and totally off his head. “The circle will drain power from all those around it,” he crows. “You have only so much life to give, necromancer, and your victim will reach up from his death to seize you – and when the last of your power is in my circle, I will capture your ghost before you can escape your body. I’ll trap you in your rotting corpse, and you will be my servant, bending your power to my will.”

Len sneers, suppressing any sense of panic; that won't help him now. “I don’t think it even _works_ that way. Looks like all that book learning got you nothing in the end, huh?”

Cabrera is lured out a step by sheer rage, but not enough for Len to get off a shot. “You will be bound,” he repeats. “You’ve committed a mortal sin, on a binding circle. There’s no escape for you.”

“A – what?” Len says blankly. “Are you _kidding me_? Judaism doesn’t even _recognize_ the concept of mortal sins!”

But he can feel the circle start to pull, like an angry ghost, like – 

Oh, _shit_.

Len looks up.

The ghosts are coming.

Cabrera miscalculated. Oh, yes, this circle will probably kill regular people, will certainly kill people like Len as well, draining them of their life one pull at a time, but it doesn’t pull any power _into_ the circle, sin or no sin.

It just pulls life out of people.

And when Len is giving off life, unwillingly offered, there’s always an audience. 

The unquiet dead of this earth are coming.

Oh, Len knew they were there, hiding amongst the dead that were happy to see him – friendlies in such large numbers that the unquiet dead wouldn’t even bother making an attempt. But those friendlies are committed to the battle now, and the unquiet dead see an opening they can’t resist.

“You insane _idiot_ ,” Len snarls, looking out at the battlefield. His ghosts are weakening, yes, but there’s still plenty of them; there will be far less after he does what he has to do and pulls them back out of the battle, calls them to him to save his own life. He doesn’t want to, but there’s no choice. “You’ll get nothing from me, one way or the other: my kind doesn’t make ghosts.”

He has the satisfaction of seeing Cabrera’s eyes go wide, realizing his mistake, seeing his chance at success slipping away, before Len turns his back to the medium and faces the crowd, raising his voice and focusing his will on the one thing he has always been able to count on.

“ _Mick!_ ”

And then Mick is there, abandoning Zoom to freedom to fight against the ghosts with all his speed and all his viciousness, roaring with rage and standing between Len and the onrushing onslaught of unquiet dead.

“Man, that sucks,” a vaguely nasal Australian voice says.

Len glances to the side.

It’s the dead boomerang guy. He’s frowning down at his body. 

“Sorry about the killing thing,” Len tells him because, hey, Judaism might not be big on mortal sin the way Catholicism is but it _is_ pretty big on apologizing when you can. Sure, most people can’t apologize for murder, which is why it’s quite as bad a thing to do as it is, but - unlike most people - Len can. “You or me, you know how it is.”

“Nah, s’cool,” the guy says, waving a dismissive hand in forgiveness. “I get it. Would’ve offed you if I’d had the chance to. Mighty nice shot, that was, by the way; if I had to die, might as well go out that way.”

“Stop making friends,” Mick snaps at the two of them. “Come help fight ‘em off, Kiwi.”

“I’m an _Aussie_ , not a _Kiwi_ ,” the guy complains, but he pulls out his ghostly boomerangs and sends them against the onrushing ghosts with their reaching hands.

Weirdly enough, it still works. 

Len’s just going to go with it. Boomerangs, _honestly_. 

Some of the friendly ghosts break off from fighting the metas to come to Len’s aid, Mick snapping them into defensive positions with almost military precision the second they arrive. Their arrival causes Len to turn back to the army, afraid to see his ghosts being knocked out of battle with what life Len could spare them drained by the force of a speedster’s blows, but he sees to his relief that his hoped-for back-up has arrived at last: there are two streaks of lightning zig-zagging throughout the battlefield, one blue, one yellow. 

The Flash is here.

He has a moment of relief – just one – and then the first ghost gets through Mick and the ghosts he’s gathered to him. These aren’t Len’s ghosts from home, the ones Mick has trained to protect Len; these ones are amateurs.

Len staggers back as the ghost grabs him, and then there’s another, and another – Mick is shouting in rage and desperation – Len feels himself choke, feels his limbs start to seize up. 

It’s too fast. 

He can normally bat away a few himself, safe and secure in his life, but he’s given far too much of it away to the army that still fights behind him in his name; these few are taking what they can from the very little that's left over.

Len falls to his knees.

He can’t breathe.

“Lenny!” Mick screams. 

“No!” Cabrera bellows, and he rushes forward, abandoning the safety of the shield to charge straight at Len. “Don’t you dare go! Your life is _mine_!”

Len can hear the charging up of the terrible machine, already demolished in part by Len’s ghosts but not enough – it’s still starting to hum. All that death…

Cabrera grabs Len by the shoulders, shaking him.

Mick is fighting the unquiet dead, shouting desperately, unable to stop fighting long enough to turn to help.

Len feels his head loll back on his shoulders.

“You bastard!” Cabrera howls into his face. “You can’t die! Your power is mine!”

“Hey,” Len whispers, feeling his mouth fill up with blood; he must have bitten his tongue. “Cabrera. A question.”

“What?” Cabrera gapes at him.

“Ain’t envy a mortal sin, too?”

And with that Len uses what little energy he has to seize Cabrera’s old body and throw him over his shoulder. He can’t throw him far, but he doesn’t need to – Cabrera lands on the ice, the frozen roof slick with blood and Len’s cold gun, and he slides all the way to the end of the roof and over.

Len can hear him screaming in incoherent rage all the way down, still more upset about losing his opportunity to get Len’s power than anything else, mad to the end, until the moment when there’s a sickening crunch.

And then there’s no more screaming.

There is, however, a sudden bloom of ghosts, each and every one freed from a terrible prison, and they’re savage, galloping after Cabrera’s escaping spirit, hands extended in rage. Len fully expects that they’ll pass on as soon as Cabrera is finally gone.

Good.

But the machine is still turning on, drawing power from Zoom and the Flash both.

_Not_ good.

“We need to get you out of here,” Mick shouts, battering unquiet dead away.

“We need to stop the machine,” Len says through numb lips. “All those dead –”

“You’re going to _die_ –”

“Mick –”

“No! You do _not_ get to do this to me, not _again_ , not –”

There’s a blaze of flame.

Flame?

Firestorm is flying through the air, heading straight to the machine. 

_Two_ Firestorms.

How?

Len squints. “Is that – _Jax_?”

It is. Len doesn’t really have a moment to question it, because Mick is grabbing him, scooping him into his arms and dashing off the roof, the unquiet dead in hot pursuit. They land with a bone-jarring thud.

“Where –”

“We need more friendlies,” Mick growls.

More – but -

Len starts to struggle. “You’re not taking me into the middle of a _battlefield_!” he protests, but he can’t deny that he already feels better, out of the range of the grasping hands of the dead. 

"You bet your ass I am!" Mick roars in return, barreling past surprised metas and ghosts alike.

"But –"

"Shut up, this is your _life_ we're talking about –"

"A _battlefield_ isn’t a good place to –"

Mick skids to a stop. “…whoa.”

“What?!” Len yelps. He can’t see from where Mick is holding him, but he can tell everyone around him is turning in the same general direction as Mick. 

Mick actually stops and turns to let Len look. Probably because they’re now surrounded by friendly ghosts, whose presence is keeping the unquiet dead back, at least for now, and gaping metas, who’ve stopped fighting to gawk. 

And it’s definitely something to gawk at.

The two Firestorms – Ronnie and Jax – have landed on opposite sides of the giant machine and are – they’re _transmuting_ it, melting the metal into water which pours down and out from the sides.

“Did we know they could do that?” Len asks Mick.

Mick just shakes his head mutely. 

And then, just as they're all gaping, all staring, there's a roar of dozens of voices and then they spill into the street.

At first Len thinks they're more metas, since they're all fully solid, but then he sees their mismatched clothing – police uniforms and business suits and t-shirts, like the strangest survey of people on the street you could get – he sees the bats and chair legs they're holding onto, he sees _Lisa_ and abruptly he understands.

This isn't Zoom's army.

This is the resistance, cobbled together quickly and fiercely, humans and meta-humans alike, charging out to defend their city. 

Following their mayor.

Well.

She _looks_ like their mayor, anyway.

And then a second group rushes in from the other direction, and that group has a Lisa of their own, too. 

Zoom's metas turn to meet the onslaught from the resistance, the ghosts cheering and restarting their attack. 

And then, suddenly, above the roar of the crowd, there’s a roar of rage and a flash of lightning, Barry chasing Zoom as he charges towards his machine, and then they’re both caught in it – the entire machine is sparking even as it melts –

All of a sudden, a hole rips into reality.

There’s no sound; it’s just there, like paper It’s nothing like the black hole, nothing at all. Len braces himself against Mick, expecting a pull, but there's no pull at all.

Instead, a shriveled old hand grabs the edge and something inhuman, something _terrible_ , pulls itself _out_ of the hole.

It's dressed in what looks like the tatters of an old speedster suit, a Flash suit, but black and faded away, its skin shriveled, flesh pulled away from gums and sharpened teeth in its gaping mouth.

The wraith pulls itself free.

And then another – and another –

Everyone is staring.

And then, when the fifth wraith has emerged, by some unspoken agreement, they all stop fighting and start backing away at once. Zoom’s meta army, the resistance, even what’s left of Len’s ghostly army, they all seem to universally agree that they don’t want to go _anywhere near_ this new development.

Len bats at Mick's arm. "Get closer!"

"Are you nuts?!"

Suddenly there's a streak of lightning.

_Another_ streak?

It comes to a screeching halt in front of Len and Mick – literally screeching, leaving skid marks on the ground like a car – and it's...

" _Webber_?!" Len says.

"Hey, boss," Wally says, beaming. He's wearing a yellow-and-red version of the speedster suit. It doesn’t quite fit, like it was sized for someone else, originally, and hastily cut down, probably because his actual clothing would light on fire if he tried to speed-run with them. 

"Nice threads," Mick grunts.

"How..?" Len starts.

"No time," Wally says. "Jay – the real Jay, our Jay – says these things are time wraiths. They chase speedsters who've messed with time."

"Has Barry been –?"

"No, no. For once, no. But Zoom has been, and apparently they're willing to eat _any_ speedster they can get their hands on once they're free."

"Fuck that," Len says with feeling; he's feeling a lot of sympathy towards people at risk of being eaten right now. "Shouldn't you get away, then? Or did I imagine the lightning at your heels?"

"Side effect of the transfer," Wally says. "Apparently Jesse and I both had the meta gene, inactive, and a transfusion of Speed Force was just what it needed to wake up."

"Nice, interesting, will care about later, but right now I’d recommend you go _away_ from the speedster-eaters, Webber."

"No can do," Wally says. "Barry’s still over by the machine; he’s in danger.”

“I could guess that, but I don’t see how putting yourself in danger is going to help –” 

“See,” Wally interrupts. “Jay says that time-wraiths are duplicate speedsters – echoes of speedsters, for every time they would’ve died but for the Speed Force, the time stream bending to the Speed Force’s fix – get it?"

"No," Mick says.

"I do," Len says. "Mick, put me down."

"Why?" Mick asks suspiciously, even as he complies and puts Len down.

"Because if Jay's right, they're not just wraiths."

"Yeah," Mick says. "They're speedster echoes. So?"

Len smiles.

"You know what we usually call echoes of people, Mick?" he says, stepping over and letting Wally grab him around the waist. "We call 'em _ghosts_."

And then Wally is running, a blur of landscape and lightning so dizzying Len has to close his eyes.

But then they're there, in front of the machine, just in time to see the time wraiths rip off part of Zoom's hand, his body, his face, before grabbing his arms and pulling him – still screaming – into the vortex from which they came.

That's fine by Len.

Then they go after Barry, grabbing him, their hands aging him, him choking in their hands, his face greying, aging, as they suck the life out of him.

That part's _not_ okay.

"Hey!" Len snaps, stepping forward. A little unsteadily, but whatever. He may have just had a partial seizure earlier; he’s allowed. "You there! Stop it! Get away from him!"

The time wraiths – there are only four surrounding Barry, unlike the dozens that attacked Zoom – all look up at him.

Len _really_ hopes this works.

To his relief, they do back away from Barry – only to stream right towards _Len_.

"Fuck no," Mick says, and he's there by Len's side, same as always, stepping forward and standing before him, between Len and anything at all. Even terrifying wraiths that have scared off an army of ghosts just by _existing_. 

But the wraiths don't attack.

They –

"Uh," Barry says, sitting up. "I think they want you to…pet them?"

That’s certainly what it looks like. They’re prancing around like puppies, practically lolling through the air, _beaming_ at Len like he’s done something wonderful just by existing. Mick, too – one of them actually rubs its face against Mick’s side gleefully.

Len’s mouth works but he’s not a hundred percent sure what to say. Or do.

Is this what it feels like to be speechless?

“Good wraith,” Mick says tentatively, reaching out to pat one on the head. The wraith goes into raptures. “Good wraith. Excellent job on Zoom. But you gotta leave Flash alone.”

“Yeah,” Len says, shaking his head. “Sorry, boys – girls – uh, however you like it – these speedsters are ours, so you’ve gotta leave ‘em be. Maybe go home now.”

The wraiths purr.

Well, it sounds like an old diesel engine with its muffler gone off, but it’s definitely purring. 

Len sighs and follows Mick’s example to pet one.

They all insist on getting at least one pet from Len, but then – skeletal faces still beaming at the two of them – they pull away and zip off back into the hole, hands grasping it and pulling it shut behind them.

And then it’s quiet. 

The battle has largely dispersed: the metas don’t seem inclined to continue fighting now that Zoom is gone, and the crowd of non-meta locals seems equally unenthused, their enthusiasm particularly dampened by the fact that there are now two Lisas, one in white-and-gold, his own in black-and-gold, who have started orating about civil rights from the top of a police car. Good for them. Just what this world needs, really: those two as friends. His Lisa won’t let any of this privacy-invading bullshit go. 

Even Len’s crowd of ghosts seems to realize that the battle is over, with the majority releasing the remainder of their acquired power with a soft sigh as they pass over and many of the remainder wandering off purposefully to go amend their final regrets. Even the remainder don’t seem particularly inclined to go anywhere near Len after the whole incident with the wraiths.

Peace and quiet, at last. 

“So,” Barry says after a few seconds. “That…happened.”

“What happened with Jax?” Mick asks. “I’m pretty sure I saw him on fire earlier.”

“He turned out to be compatible with Stein and Ronnie,” Barry replies, rubbing his face and shaking his head like it can make the weirdness of the last few minutes go away. “He was able to stabilize them both – they’ve formed a three-part bond.”

“Jenna’s gonna kill all of us,” Len says glumly.

“…yeah, probably.”

“We should probably get back to the meeting point if we want to catch our ride back to our Earth,” Wally says. He looks wistful. Probably thinking of Jesse. Or Jax. Maybe he has a thing for the letter J?

“Yeah,” Len says, rubbing his own face. He can feel the weakness in his bones, and his hands are kind of numb, probably from the attack earlier. “I want dinner, a shower, a nap, and then to rob a bank.” He considers. “Maybe another jewelry store.”

“Since you _did_ just save my life, I’m going to try to forget you said that,” Barry says. 

“Let’s go home,” Mick says.


	26. 25

As a ghost, Mick doesn't require sleep per se, but Len's never met a ghost that doesn't mimic the habits of being human up to and including the need for some shut-eye. The more powerful they are – the more life they have – the more they feel the actual urge to go to sleep.

Len has no idea what sleep has to do with life, but he knows they're deeply interconnected. Mick, for instance, sleeps every night by Len's side, almost like a regular person.

This is why Len is intimately, _painfully_ familiar with the fact that Mick has woken up gasping and panting and shaking at least three nights out of every seven for the last month. 

Len's always been a light sleeper, much to his occasional regret, so he wakes up every time it happens. 

That's what's happened tonight, too, and now that Len's awake, he's not particularly inclined to go back to sleep, even if it is far, far too early to actually be getting up. 

He rolls over to look at Mick. "Same dream?"

"Yeah," Mick says, swallowing and rubbing at his face as if he can make the leftover remnants of the dream go away.

"Not fire?" Len asks. Mick has always had nightmares about fire. 

"I'm used to nightmares about fire," Mick says dismissively. "Or death. Or both. They don't really...okay, they still bother me, but nothing like this. This is – I don't know what this is."

Len nods. It's not like Mick's alive and can blame his nightmares on bad digestion or something. This recurring nightmare business is something else. Something new.

"Tell me about it," he says, propping himself up on his elbow. 

"I've already told you," Mick growls. "Every goddamn night I've had it, I've told you -"

"I know you have," Len says patiently. It helps Mick to recite the dream; it calms him down, grounds him, makes the dream seem further away from reality. "Tell me again anyway."

Mick scrubs at his face again, looking annoyed, but he complies. "I'm with you, but you're far away. Your voice is faint like we're in a crowd – and your voice is never faint, not for me, not even if I'm far away, so it's real weird and it's freaking me out – and I can't hear what you're saying through the noise."

Len nods. "You can hear me now," he reminds Mick, reaching out to squeeze Mick's thigh - a physical reminder that Mick is here, and not in the dream.

Mick exhales, a long, shaky, uncertain sound. "Yeah. Yeah. That's good. You're here, and I can hear you. We're not there." He pauses for a second, then adds, "The time puppies are there. In the dream."

Len has to bite his lip to keep from snorting. He can't help it; he does it every time - he just finds it too ridiculous not to. _Time puppies._ Honestly. "You know Barry hates it when you call them that, right?"

"Oh, he's made that clear," Mick replies, smirking a little. "He's all 'they're called time _wraiths_ ' and 'they nearly _ate_ me' and 'stop cooing about how cute they were, they weren't _cute_ '. Bullshit. They were _adorable_."

Len chuckles - he agrees with Mick entirely - but doesn't let Mick distract him. "Keep going on the dream."

"Right. The time puppies are there, and they've grabbing at me with their hands – not bad grabbing the way the unquiet dead does for you, more just tugging at me, like they want to show me something. Some of 'em have my pants, my shirt. They keep tugging. They want to show me something important."

"Right. So you go with them."

"I go with them," Mick agrees. "I know you said I should try not to, but when I'm in the dream I'm just totally convinced that if I don't go with them, something terrible's gonna happen. No. Not _gonna_ happen. Something terrible is _happening_ , and I'm the only one who can fix it."

Len nods.

"And I go down this hallway, and it's dark and it's light and all grey everywhere, real dull and uninteresting, and there's something there – something bright – at the end of the hallway - it's not good type of bright, more like what you imagine an atomic bomb going off looks like, all sickly white light – it's shining out of a room at the end of the hallway. And as I keep going closer and closer, I get this growing feeling that something’s wrong –"

Mick trails off.

"And then?" Len prods gently.

"And then, every time, just as I make it to the room with the light, I wake up with my non-living heart racing like a prize stallion and gasping for air I don't need."

Len nods. It's the same dream exactly – Mick's recitation varies, but never the facts, not even slightly. Based on Len’s own experiences with dreams, that’s just not normal. "And you don't think it means anything."

"Nothing a dream interpretation guide'll be able to tell us," Mick says with a sigh. "There's something weird about this dream, Lenny. I don't know what. But there's something."

Len nods. "I know," he says. "I agree. Same dream, over and over again; that'd be weird even if you were alive, and you're not, which makes it _extra_ weird. Not sure what we can do about it - we've told STAR Labs about it –"

"Team-stealers," Mick says, though his voice is mild, not accusing. They've rather resigned themselves to it. 

Because Jax joined Firestorm as their triad bond, he was now sort of stuck with Ronnie and Stein, helping them train and working with them on jobs and swapping out which one of them would be merging into Firestorm. And that, of course, meant that he was a bona-fide hero now, despite his best attempts to argue that he could balance hero-time and Rogue-time.

Jenna had not in fact killed them all, but it'd been close.

The fact that Wally also quit the Junior Rogues at the same time helped Jax feel a little better about it, at least. Wally's speed powers had remained intact even after they'd come back from Earth-2 and showed no sign of failing anytime soon, so he'd had Cisco modify the yellow-and-red speedster suit for his fit and joined Team Flash officially as Kid Flash.

Joe and Francine had agreed on something for the first time in months, voicing their disapproval and absolute refusal to support Wally's newest endeavor - which Len and Mick both personally thought was bullshit, since Wally isn't that much younger than Barry was when he got started out as the Flash, and Joe certainly hadn't been going all out parental disapproval there - but Wally insisted and Barry agreed and, well, that was that. To be fair, Barry mostly agreed to keep Wally on Team Flash despite the dangers and his own natural martyr complex because Iris was full-on kicking his ass into gear about the importance of respecting people’s agency, but still. Kid was trying. 

Wally’s newfound relationship with Jessie had fizzled, which was a shock to exactly no one who had noticed exactly how bummed out and jealous Jax had been about it. 

Which is to say, everyone. Jax hadn’t exactly been subtle, even though he’d been perfectly friendly to Jessie any time she came to visit.

The whole business had gone on for _weeks_. It'd been _awful_. 

Jax was moping about Wally having a girlfriend and Wally was moping about Jax spending all of his time training with Firestorm and both of them were moping about the other one seeming to pull away and Jessie was mostly just bewildered by the whole thing, especially since (not being blind) she, too, could figure out that Jax was super down about something. 

After one such visit from Jessie, and very likely at her insistance, Wally ended up dragging Jax into the hallway to confront him about it.

Len and Mick took one look at each other when that happened, then at everyone else then present in the room, and there was immediate unanimous agreement made without a single word being spoken.

Cisco went to block out the cameras and make sure no alarms went off to interrupt and Caitlin started making loud sounds with her machine to drown out any noise coming in and Len and Mick immediately beelined for Joe and Francine to make sure that no matter what happened, neither of them would end up walking out into the hallway and interrupting anything going on in there.

Going down in there?

Hopefully not. There's a thing known as moving too fast, kids. 

Of course, all precautions aside, STAR Labs security is as godawful as ever, which meant that Iris ended up being the one to walk in on the two of them making out and shrieked loud enough that Barry ran over immediately, which meant _he_ saw it, too, and luckily someone – probably Iris, honestly – had had the presence of mind to instruct Barry to run the two flustered-looking miscreants out to where they could have an actual _conversation_ on the subject. 

In peace. Without anyone eavesdropping. 

And, most importantly, without imminent disapproving parental supervision likely to walk in on them. 

Judging by the way they were both tap-dancing on air the next day, luckily not literally given their respective power sets, Len’s going to guess that the whole matter was resolved to – he can’t help himself – their mutual satisfaction.

Jessie took the news of the break-up with excellent grace (she was clearly expecting it - Len knew from the start that she was a smart girl) and told them she was totally up for a threesome any time they swing by Earth-2. Hearing that, Harry turned as red as a tomato and started yelling, but luckily the cross-Earth connection cut out at that point.

By "luckily", Len means that he hit the button to cut said connection. 

Unfortunately, the departure of both Wally and Jax brought the Rogues officially back down to the original three, though Lisa had mentioned something about wanting to collect the metas Len and Mick had helped Barry release way back when into a proper Rogues gang. Len had given her his blessing and a triple-guard of ghosts; it was well past time for Lisa to be leading her own super-powered crew and making a name for herself beyond being Captain Cold's baby sister. 

Though, that did leave Len and Mick at some loose ends. They didn't want to do any supervillaining because that would end up stepping on Lisa's new crew's toes, Len refused to consider himself a superhero except for sometimes lending a hand (an antihero at _best_ ), and Barry got so sulky every time Len ran a major heist in his city. So what did that leave?

Not much. They'd been pulling a few small heists here and there to keep busy, at least until Len could think of something worth their attention.

"Let's go do the minivan job tomorrow," he suggests to Mick. "It'll make you feel better; forget the dream."

Mick grunts, but Len knows he agrees.

And pulling the job does make Mick feel better – right up until they get kidnapped by a maniac in a trenchcoat with a story about being from the future.

They end up on a rooftop in Central, Stein and Jax and a handful of other people by their side. 

“My name is Rip Hunter,” the man who kidnapped them says grandly. “I’m from East London – oh, and the future.”

Mick tries to shoot him.

“Ah, I may have tampered with your weapons,” the guy says pompously, because obviously disarming people against their will and messing with their _engagement guns_ is the way to make friends and influence people. _Not_. “Now, I’ve assembled you all because I need your help –”

“And you thought _kidnapping_ was the way to go about asking for our help,” Jax says. He's really mastered the incredibly sarcastic tone; even Stein looks approving. Just Stein, oddly enough - no Ronnie. Strange. “ _Really_?”

“Seems counterintuitive,” Len says.

“You mean dumb,” Mick grunts.

“The future of the world is in peril,” the guy presses on, ignoring them. He’s clearly rehearsed a great big old inspirational speech and has no intention of letting them ruin it. “Because of a man by the name of Vandal Savage.”

“That can’t be,” a black woman says, stepping forward. She’s beautiful, but wearing a really quite absurd crop top. “We destroyed him.”

“The Green Arrow and the Flash helped us do it,” the man standing by her side adds. 

Len vaguely remembers something along those lines - he's pretty sure he was benched from all super-anything jobs at the time. 

“Unfortunately, therein lay the problem,” the guy from the future replies. “Unless you or Mr. Hall deliver the death blow, Savage can be restored from but a single cell.”

“That sounds biologically questionable to me,” Len drawls. “Stein?”

“Clarissa’s the biologist,” Stein replies ruefully with a shrug. “Physics doesn't really handle reincarnation or regeneration, not even a little. Though I will say it does sound strange to me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” a woman in white interjects, looking around. She's standing at something of a distance - there's something a bit weird about her, but Len's not really looking closely right now. He's keeping his eyes on their kidnapper. 

“Vandal Savage is immortal,” the guy standing next to the black woman says, looping a hand around her waist in a possessive sort of way. She doesn’t seem entirely comfortable with it. Len doesn't like him already. “Kendra and I reincarnate.”

“Yeah, I’ve done that,” the woman in white mutters.

“What does this Randall Savage guy got to do with us?” Jax asks, crossing his arms. 

“ _Vandal_ Savage,” future-guy says, wincing a little. “Randall Savage is a wrestler of some variety - never mind, it's not important. What is important is that in the future, _Vandal_ Savage will use the power he has amassed throughout history to finally conquer the world. I've been tasked with assembling an elite team to stop him – to travel through time and capture Savage before he grows into the monster he becomes.”

“You’ve got the wrong guys,” Len says. “Hero ain’t on my resume.”

Jax snorts.

“I know your mother’s phone number,” Len reminds him pointedly. Antihero at _best_ , damnit. 

Jax holds his hands up in surrender. “You’re totally not a hero,” he says with a smirk. “Definitely not. Nope. No heroism. Total bad guy, you. Never did a nice thing in your life.”

“I think he’s making fun of me,” Len says to Mick, affecting a whining tone.

“Gee, boss, you _think_?”

“I’m still a thief, you know.”

“You act like those are mutually exclusive categories, Mr. Snart,” Stein says. He’s grinning too.

Assholes.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” future-guy says. “I know it's difficult for you to fathom, but where... _when_ I'm from, the year 2166, you and everyone on this roof aren't just considered heroes... You're _legends_.”

He says it very grandly and everything, like he's expecting a drum roll to manifest out of the sky, but everyone just sort of stares at him for couple of increasingly awkward seconds. 

“I hate to nitpick, but doesn’t a legend have to be dead?” a tall guy finally asks.

“Yeah, see, that’s a deal breaker for me,” Jax says. “I’m gonna pass.”

“Now, Jax,” Len drawls. “Don’t be rude. There’s plenty of types of legends that don’t die: you’ve got the Wild West legends, folk legends, local legends, John Legend…”

“If signing up means I turn into John Legend, I’m _definitely_ gonna pass,” Jax says. “Respect for the man and all, but seriously, no.”

“It's dangerous for any of you to know too much about your own futures,” future guy – Rip Hunter, he said his name was? – says in his best portentous voice. “But I am here because each of you, as individuals, is destined for greatness.”

“Are we talking destined for greatness like in Lord of the Rings?” Len asks, tapping his lips with a finger. Everyone who knows him well enough to know that this is his preferred position for mockery smirks. “Or is this more of a Star Wars thing? It’s an important distinction, y’know. Equally doomed, after all, but in different ways.”

Hunter glares at him.

“This is serious business, Mr. Snart.”

“Greatness,” the tall guy says thoughtfully. “I could get behind that.”

“If you don’t follow me,” Hunter says, “this is what is in store for your world 150 years from now.” He dramatically turns on a 3D video projector showing Central City, mostly on fire and half-demolished.

“I never want to see one of those things again,” Len grumbles. “Goddamn Earth-2.”

“Will you shut up for a second?” the woman in white says. “Look at it! It’s our world, destroyed!”

“Could be future-time photo-shopped, you know,” Len points out. 

“It _isn’t_ ,” Hunter snaps, then forcefully calms himself. “Listen to me. I could have chosen any time and any place. Of all the people who ever lived, I chose you eight. I certainly hope that you won't let me, and the world, down. If your answer is yes, meet me at this address in 36 hours.”

With that, he sweeps off.

“Well,” Len says. “That was fun. I think I’ve had more enjoyable sales pitches from my cell phone company.”

The black woman snorts in amusement, then tries to hide her face. “Sorry,” she says when the man next to her shoots her a look. “That was kind of funny.”

“Hate to be the one to bring this up,” Mick grunts. “But we just got ditched.”

“Good point,” Len says. “Who needs a ride home? Or a hotel, I guess?”

“I’ll fly home with Jefferson,” Stein says, shaking his head. “This isn’t really the place to catch a cab.”

“No kidding,” Jax says, looking around with a frown. He's more accustomed to the bad areas of Central than Stein is, but even he doesn't want to be here at night.

Hell, Len recognizes this area. _He_ doesn't want to be here at night, and he's one of the people that generally helps make an area one that other people don't want to be around at night. 

“I wasn’t even in this _country_ ,” the woman in white says, clearly irritated.

“I know a good hotel not far from here,” the black woman offers.

“I’d appreciate directions, thanks.”

“I could probably use a hotel, too,” the tall man says, shaking his head. “Just give me the address, though; I need to go talk to some people – plus, I have my own methods of transportation.”

If he’s hoping someone will ask, he’s destined to be disappointed.

They all disperse without much else.

"So," Len says as he and Mick head home via a shitty car that they hotwire off the street. "Do you think Doctor Who's for real, or is he just from another Earth and trying to pull a fast one on us?”

Mick doesn't respond. 

"Mick?"

"What do you think about his offer?" Mick says abruptly.

"Are you asking if I want to go?" Len asks. "Because _hell yeah_ I want to go. Traveling through time, stealing all the great epic disappeared treasures of history? Count me in. Oh, and that tyrant thing sounds pretty unpleasant, too. But this recruiting business stinks like old fish - kidnapping and ditching and whatnot - and that gives me a bit of pause."

"Yeah," Mick says.

Len arches his eyebrows at Mick. "Must admit, would've thought you'd be the one protesting about how we're not heroes and complaining about the logistics of getting enough ghosts on this mission for you to feel comfortable about my safety. Given how you've been treating me like I need my very own Praetorian Guard to keep me safe."

Mick smirks, but it's thin compared to what he normally does. "The Praetorian Guard killed as many emperors as they guarded, boss."

"Pssh, details. Now really, Mick; what's gotten you so thoughtful?"

"I think," Mick says slowly, "I think this is it."

"This is what?"

"This is _it_. The thing that the time puppies are tugging me towards. It feels right, somehow. Same type of right it feels when I follow them in the dream."

Len frowns. "You think so?"

"They're _time_ puppies," Mick points out. "This guy says he'll take us through time. There's gotta be a connection."

"I guess," Len says, the shine abruptly fading off of the whole time travel business to be replaced by his worries about Mick's unusual dreaming habits. "I dunno; not sure I like being led around by the nose by some dream – even if it is by the puppies."

"If you don't want to go, we won't," Mick says firmly. "I think this is a moment to choose. We go, we don't go – either way, you're the boss."

"We're _partners_ , Mick."

"I know. But sometimes you gotta account for the fact that of the two of us, you're the one who has a life at stake here, not me. My life's done."

"Your life isn't done till I say it is," Len replies, a fond rebuttal he's thrown at Mick a million times. "We pass on together, remember?"

Mick smiles, a real smile this time. "I remember. But still. You pick."

"Well," Len says after a minute of thought and maybe a little bit of mental giggling over the idea of all of his sci-fi adventure dreams coming true, "let it never said I'm not curious enough to kill a cat. Let's just hope the satisfaction is enough to bring us back."

The decision made, they spend the next few hours explaining as much as they can to their various contacts – Lisa and Team Flash, mainly, since Firestorm (at least, Jax and Stein) were also on that rooftop getting the same offer. Presumably they're telling Ronnie all about it as they speak. 

Lisa wishes them well and makes them promise to try to find a way to send updates. Cisco gets to work on a method to do so and presses four prototype communication devices to try out once they're in a different time period on them.

Jax begs his mother for permission to go, pointing out that it's nearly summer and he's bound to be back in time for school and maybe it'd be a good idea to take some time off now that everyone sort of knows that he's a superhero and - 

Len thinks Jenna agrees to make him shut up as much as anything else. Jax says that his grandmother likes time travel stories and helped convince her; he seems very relieved. 

Wally pouts a bit about his boyfriend going away, but he also thinks it's incredibly awesome and demands that Jax bring him back time-travel souvenirs. Jax makes him promise to get souvenirs from the next major Central City villain they end up fighting. They go on in that vein for some time, despite Len loudly and pointedly gagging behind them. 

Ronnie starts off by asking why he wasn't invited, but he makes the mistake of saying that while he's in STAR Labs and Caitlin's head shoots up. "If you think you're going anywhere other than our honeymoon, Ronnie, you've got another thing coming."

Ronnie laughs. 

"Besides," Len drawls. "Team Flash needs an adult male figure to help out. Otherwise, they'll go mentor shopping again, and they don't have much luck with that."

Ronnie laughs harder, even as Team Flash squawks in protest.

Clarissa and Jenna are also far more inclined to agree to permit the whole time travel business when Ronnie explains that he’ll be able to report back on Jax and Stein’s health and status on a regular basis through their bond. While they haven't exactly tested it through time travel, it's been able to stand up to just about everything else that they’ve been able to throw at it, so they have hope.

Len arranges a handful of ghosts he thinks might enjoy coming with – Nadja, Omar, Lester, Yelena, Prihiya, strong poltergeists and adrenaline junkies all – and tells them they can refuse at any minute, pull back if they have to. He suspects whatever mode of transportation they use to travel through time will already have enough ghosts. 

Rip Hunter had the look of a man with ghosts.

Len can't _wait_ to meet them.

"Time travel," he murmurs to Mick, who smiles at Len's excitement. "I wonder if we live in a fixed or malleable universe."

"I thought Barry would've proven the latter, what with all of his edits. Ones he’s told us about, anyhow."

"But do his edits change time, or just revert it back to how the timeline was originally supposed to run? Are the changes intentional? How are the multiverses – assuming they work on a quantum theory basis – affected by time travel? Questions for the ages, Mick."

"You're _such_ a nerd," Mick says fondly. 

"Did the great disappearances and never-solved thefts of history actually happen?" Len continues. "Or do we only think they happened because we didn't know that in the future we did 'em? What are the rules? Are you at risk of creating paradox or is there some sorta self-correcting mechanism?"

"Boss. I'm not the guy to ask. We're on our way to meet the guy to ask. Stop bugging me."

Len shakes his head and smiles.

They arrive there, all of them. Len hadn't really paid all that much attention last time, but there's something weird about three of them.

"Mick," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the black woman, who's frowning, and the guy that is clearly her boyfriend, who is smirking. "Other than the prelude to what is clearly an unhealthy relationship, what's with those two?"

Mick squints at them. "Nothing," he says. "That I can tell, anyway. Though you're right – the guy's clearly an asshole and the woman's a dumb sap for staying with him."

He says it loud enough for the two to overhear, which makes the man scowl and the woman smirk a bit. Clearly not the healthiest relationship, there.

And then the time ship appears.

"Shit," Yelena says. "Would you look at that."

Len nods. It's impressive as hell - big boxy steel frame, glowing power core, basically the space ship out of every little kid's dreams. Well, his dreams, anyway. 

"I don't think I can do that," she continues.

Len turns and arches his eyebrows at her.

She shrugs. "I dunno, boss. Something about it’s repelling me. Looks like a great adventure, but I think it's like Earth-2. We'll be too far from home to come along without draining you big time." The others nod, looking reluctant.

Len frowns. "Mick?"

"I can see what the problem is - the repulsion effect. I feel it too, but I'm not having any trouble I can’t deal with," Mick reports. "But then again, I'm not quite like the others."

"Think we can go without 'em?"

"Doesn't make me _happy_ about it," Mick says, scowling a little. "But, I mean, the past's gotta have enough ghosts to protect you, right? And you've been feeling real good after that whole army in Earth-2 bit."

Len's abilities have in fact rebounded stronger than ever, after a persistent period of weakness following their sojourn to Earth-2. He may have spent nearly ten days barely getting out of bed, but ever since then, he's been able to charge up the ghosts he wants to help quicker than ever and with less strain, like his body is preparing to need to charge another army.

It's a bit worrying, but Len can't really bring himself to complain about feeling _good_. 

Len chews on his lip for a moment before offering, "It’s a risk I'm willing to take if you are."

Mick shrugs. "I told you what I think. You said go, we go. But this is the way forward that I was dreaming of."

Len nods. He knows what that means: Mick wants to go. And if Mick wants to go, then they're going to go - the fact that this is making the sci-fi lover in him scream in joy is secondary to that, really. "Then let's go. Rest of you, dismissed."

The ghosts wave goodbye as they go.

Len and Mick look at each other, nod, and trail after the others who are eagerly boarding the ship. 

There's that woman in white again. He'd noticed back last time that she felt a bit off, and he's not sure what to do with her. The other woman and her boyfriend – the ones who reincarnate – they feel almost empty of life, like the opposite of Len, except they don’t feel drained. More like their bodies are a series of containers in which only part of the whole has been put in each. Len's not sure how to describe it. It makes some amount of sense, though, what with their whole intertwined-fate-and-reincarnation story. 

The woman in white, though she also said she'd been reincarnated, she's different from them. Fundamentally different.

For one thing, she's a ghost.

Well, no, not quite. She's a ghost bound within human flesh, like Cabrera threatened to do to Len, but without the rotting and also without any apparent objection on her part, which meant that this was probably her original body and the person who brought her back to life had meant this in some sort of benevolent way.

A benevolent medium.

Yeah, no. Len'll believe it when he sees it, and he hopes never to see another medium ever again.

It still just _looks_ wrong. Living people are bound up nice and close with their life; ghosts aren't. That's the difference between them. This woman, though: she's in her own body, but she has some sort of a gap lingering there between her and her life.

Not quite a ghost and not quite alive, that's what she is. 

She keeps shooting him weird looks, probably because she keeps unconsciously drifting over to wherever he is in the room.

Len steps forward, says something meaningless to distract her - something about them being the only people without weird backstories, trying to draw her out on hers; she smirks and says, "Actually, I'm an undead ninja assassin.”

“Just trying to make conversation.” 

“Sure,” she drawls. “I can tell by the way you're staring at my ass."

Len smirks automatically, because history has taught him that demonstrating compulsive heterosexuality in new groups is a good idea until he's judged them well enough to relax a bit, but otherwise lets her flounce off. 

He'll have time to figure it out.

All the _time_ in the world.

His smirk widens.

"You just made a pun about time," Mick guesses from behind him.

"Yep."

"This trip is going to _suck_."

Len laughs.

They all strap in, and then they're off.


	27. 26

"This is worse than cars," Mick grumbles. He looks ill.

It takes a really special something to give a ghost an upset stomach.

The Waverider is precisely that special something, apparently.

Time travel _sucks_.

Somehow, that detail never really seemed to get that much attention in any of the sci-fi films Len watched. 

They arrive in the 1970s, which is a little disappointing - all of history, and they go to a time within Len's living memory, if admittedly just barely? - and deal with some side-effects like numbness or linguistic confusion ( _another_ overlooked detail). Hunter announces their target for the moment – some professor who supposedly will have information to lead them to the bad guy they're hunting – and then promptly ditches Len, Mick, and Sara. 

“This mission doesn’t require your particular skill set,” Hunter says, then, thinking better of it, adds an ominous, “Yet.”

“Meaning you don’t need anyone killed, maimed or robbed,” Len says, unimpressed.

“Precisely,” Hunter sniffs.

“Sure it’s a good idea to leave these two unsupervised on a time machine?” the tall guy asks.

“Hey, haircut,” Mick snaps. “Deafness wasn’t one of the side effects.”

“We need to hurry,” Hunter says. “Professor Boardman will die in less than 24 hours.”

“Why cut it so close?” Carter asks.

“Because if he's destined to die, then he doesn't have a timeline for us to disrupt, and whatever impact our involvement now will have on the future will be minimal,” Hunter explains. “You see, time wants to happen – that’s what makes our fight against Savage so difficult. This man’s death occurs, and will likely still occur, regardless of any interaction we have with him.”

“Brilliant, if somewhat depressing,” Stein comments. “Jefferson, are you coming?”

"I'm not going anywhere," Jax says, still looking queasy from the flight. "Grey, next time we take off? Roofie me first."

"I would _never_ ," Stein says, but he's beaming. "I can scarcely believe it – we're in 1975 once more!"

"Maybe they're faking it," Len suggests. "Like the moon landing."

"The moon landing wasn't _faked_ , Mr. Snart," Hunter says officiously, even as Stein and Jax are rolling their eyes. It's an in-joke to the time someone suggested as much to Caitlin and she spent the next three days in 'someone is wrong on the internet and I need to tell them in excruciating detail why' mode, which naturally meant that everything fake in Central City from American cheese to teenage pop singer vocals was now immediately compared to the moon landing. It wasn’t a comment _meant_ for Hunter, something the man chooses to ignore entirely – if he’d even noticed. He seems rather self-involved. Len wishes that the time ship wasn't ghost-repellant - he'd love to find out more about Hunter, and where better than from his ghosts? "Now, shall we be on our way?"

They leave. Len promptly starts to snoop around the time ship, while Mick finds the television. "Oh," he says wryly. "Reruns."

Len rolls his eyes. For someone who lived through parts of the ‘70s more or less glued to the TV after they constructed the juvie, Mick really has no room to complain.

"Am I the only one on this ship who could really use a drink?” Sara asks after a few minutes, still looking slightly confused by how she keeps drifting over to stand by Len. “I say we go get weird in the '70s.”

"Snart's the freakiest thing here," Mick says. "But I'm game for a drink."

“Excellent idea,” Len says. Beats sitting around on a shelf until Hunter decides to use them, that’s for sure. 

"Yeeeah, I'm not legal yet," Jax says.

"Live on the wild side, kid," Sara tells him. "No one's gonna card you."

Behind her back, Len mimes making a telephone call, then draws a finger across his throat. He’s met Jenna. He knows better. She'll find out, _somehow_.

"My mom will literally teleport through time and space to find me in the act," Jax says, confirming Len’s suspicions. "And then rip my head off. No, thanks. I’m only a few months from legal anyway."

"Your loss."

Len's a bit wary heading out into the past on his own, with only Mick at his side, but everything seems fine – he can hear the ghosts, same as always, buzzing about, and the first unquiet dead that starts sidling over takes one look at Mick and splits. Just like old times.

Besides, turns out the ‘70s isn't really all that different from what Len recalls the ‘80s to be.

Len and Mick follow Sara to a bar, which she finds with the instincts of a drunk sorority girl – which is to say, within ten minutes and with stunning accuracy at finding incredibly cheap alcohol. 

"Dollar beers," Mick says approvingly. “You gotta love the ‘70s.” Then he spots a jukebox and his eyes light up.

Len braces himself.

“Who wants to listen to some Captain and Tennille?” Mick asks innocently. “I heard it played when I grew up. A _lot_.” 

Len glares. That had been a very specific period in his life, damnit.

Pity jukeboxes never have any good ‘30s music to torment Mick with. 

"Hey, Leonard," Sara says. "Wanna dance?"

"You go right ahead," he says, waving a hand. “I'll watch.” 

It's as good an excuse as any to stare at the holes in her, for lack of a better term. The medium that brought her back did a good job – it's definitely her body, that much is evident from the slick and confident way she moves – but whatever technique brought her back to life didn't make for a perfect match between body and soul.

He wonders what she uses to fill those gaps. Bloodshed or sex are the most likely, though food or attention could do it for some. He doubts it for her, though. Some combination, perhaps?

It occurs to him that failed – or partially-failed – medium resurrections could very well be the original source of the vampire myth. 

It's an interesting line of thought, sadly interrupted by the bar fight Sara promptly gets into. 

She can definitely hold her own, though. _Badass_. Len approves. 

"Now," she says, studying the gang approaching her, "I could do with a hand."

Len takes the polite gesture – she most certainly does not need a hand, not against this few, based on how easily she was disposing of the first few – in the spirit in which it's meant, and he nods, jumping into the fray with Mick by his side.

They're still laughing about it when Len's Cisco-provided comm – currently in his pocket – buzzes. 

Len pulls it out, mildly impressed that it still works.

"What's that?" Sara asks.

"Comm link from 2016," Len says. "Jax, that you?"

"Could you guys come back?" Jax asks, aiming for casual and sounding a bit shaken. "We, uh, the Waverider, that is, kinda sorta appear to be under attack." 

"Great," Mick says. "I'll pop a car."

As always, Mick drives like a maniac who was born when horses were still more popular a mode of transportation and they were still debating the benefit of regularized speed limits, but Sara seems to enjoy it. Len just holds onto his seatbelt for dear life. 

They get there just in time to hit one of the three armored figures, not unlike gussied up storm troopers, attacking the Waverider with what appear to be pulse rifles, not to mention Stein, Hunter, the two others and what's probably the professor they went off to investigate.

"We go out for one lousy drink and you guys decided to re-enact Attack of the Clones?" Len drawls as he steps out of the car and charges up his gun. "For shame."

The troopers have very good armor, good enough to resist Len's cold gun, but Len's used to being at a disadvantage, and they aren't expecting him to ice the ground under their feet so that they slip.

And, of course, no one, armor or not, likes to be downstream of Mick's heat gun.

Stein makes it to the ship, grabbing Jax and forming Firestorm, and with his help, they're able to cover their retreat into the ship.

"I think we could've taken 'em," Mick growls as they take off.

"In some cases, Mr. Rory, retreat is the wiser course," Hunter says, and takes them off into something he calls the temporal zone.

He's kinda condescending, but whatever.

More important is figuring out why, exactly, soldiers which were obviously from the future are hunting them down.

Hunter has an answer to that, too, but it's not one the heroes on board like.

Turns out they're not Legends. They're nobodies.

And this mission? _Totally_ unauthorized. 

Illegal, in fact. 

The storm troopers work for Rip Hunter’s old bosses, who turn out are really pissed about Hunter grabbing his ship and running off to go meddle with the timeline against their express instructions. 

Mick shoots Len an amused look, which Len returns. Neither of them really put much stock in something being illegal, for obvious reasons, and Len never really did care about his rep outlasting him. Hell, he's just glad he's still alive for the moment – there’s that family history clock ticking down, after all, closer and closer.

Besides, they’re not on this ship to make names for themselves. They're here to have _fun_. 

"Bet you a quarter they pick 'Legends' as a team name," Mick says when they settle down to repair their guns.

"God, no. That'd be dumb."

"You good for it, then?"

"...nah. It's dumb, but it's just these guys' speed of dumb."

Mick snorts in agreement. 

"Still feel like we're going the right way?" Len asks.

"Yeah. Definitely."

"Good to know. No ghosts around us here in the time stream –” It’s oddly quiet, which Len doesn’t like since it reminds him of what happened with his dad, even though this quiet feels a lot more natural than that did. More like travelling from the city to the country, a reduced noise level instead of a total muting. It’s still an uncomfortable reminder, but Len’ll be damned if he stops doing anything because of that bastard. “– but the ghosts in the past feel the same."

"Some of them probably _are_ the same, boss. The 70s weren't _that_ long ago."

"Says Mr. Great Depression."

"Please. Mr. Dust Bowl's more precise."

"Either way, old man."

Mick grins, teeth glinting in the low light. "Hope I die before I get old. Oh, _wait_ now..."

Len chuckles. 

Rather unsurprisingly, the heroes decide to stay on with the missions. It's Mr. Perky Scientist – Ray Palmer – who first suggests calling themselves Legends. 

Len's glad he didn't take that sucker's bet. 

And then, for lack of any better ideas, they go to a nuke auction to find Savage.

"There's a lot of restless spirits here," Len comments to Mick as they head into the auction. 

"Wouldn't have pegged you for the religious sort, Leonard," Sara says, coming up behind him.

"I'm not," Len says. "I only celebrate two holidays for real – New Years and Atonement Day, and all that's in between."

Her nose wrinkles. She's probably wondering what weird sect of Christian he is, which is of course wrong - people always assume Christian sect before they assume Judaism, which is really just quite sad. It's not important now, though; he'll just correct her later.

To be fair, he is in some weird sect - while everyone Jewish agrees that Atonement Day's the most important day of the year, it's usually Passover after that, but for his family, it's New Year's, and they observe the rest of the holidays more perfunctorily than they probably ought to as good Jews. But New Years and Atonement Day: his mother pressed those two into his head. The New Year, when you start the year afresh, and Atonement Day, the day when all wrongs have the chance to be forgiven if you ask for them from their rightful bearer. Wrongs against your fellow man, from your fellow man. Wrongs against God, from God. The day of the breaking of oaths; the day of confession; the day of the future. 

The day God marks down your fate, closing the book of life and the book of death for another year. The book of life, the book of death, the book in-between, and the black book. Len’s family’s own personal mythology. 

Len wonders, idly, how Sara's own religion fared when faced with the proof of her death and resurrection.

"It gonna be a problem?" Mick asks, ignoring Sara. He can see the ghosts too. Most ghosts don’t follow people around, not loved ones, not hated ones, nobody; they just drift, often around where they died, sometimes checking in on loved ones but rarely having enough life of their own to actively follow someone. These are not most ghosts. No, these ghosts are of the rarest sort - neither unquiet nor friendly. They are _savage_. Feral. They can focus on nothing but the men they follow, their killers, and they are distracted by nothing, not even Len with all his life.

Ghosts of revenge. They gather only around the cruelest of mass-murderers, and they’re here in flocks. 

Len would not want to be one of the men in this crowd when they finally die, their spirit separating from their body only to be welcomed by the hands of their waiting victims. 

"No," he says. "Let's go."

He lifts an invite, but it's Stein's bluffing that gets them in. 

It's also Stein's blunder that gets them caught, but hey, you win some, you lose some. 

Savage himself is unprepossessing from a physical standpoint, but he feels wrong, too, the way Carter and Kendra do. If they're partially empty containers, like parts of their lives are somewhere else, then he's some sort of a sieve.

His life is cycling like some sort of self-contained waterfall, which Len doesn't even know what that means; he's never seen it before. That must be what Rip Hunter meant by 'immortal'.

From what Len gleaned from the conversations on board, he's using Kendra and Carter as sources to feed his own life.

A bit like Cabrera wanted, with Len's power.

Fucking _mediums_. Len goes a whole lifetime without them, and now he can't seem to be rid of them.

Mick ends up setting shit on fire and they fight back-to-back, the same way as always, heat gun and cold gun. Firestorm leaps into action, Ray Palmer (Len can't bring himself to call him 'Palmer', he really can't) pulls out a shrinking super-suit, Sara unleashes some ninja moves with some batons, Kendra and Carter sprout hawk-wings – even Hunter pulls out some dinky futuristic six-shooter that goes with lasers. 

Not too shabby, even though Hunter yells at them later.

Of course, the yelling not entirely without a purpose: Ray apparently screwed up the timeline by leaving some future tech lying around, which means that Sara leads team go-and-find-it while Len and Mick volunteer for team get-the-magic-dagger-that-will-kill-Savage, which cannot actually be dumber than it sounds but very well might be. It's apparently hidden at some rich Russian's house; should be a nice easy in-and-out snatch job. 

Ray insists on going with them.

"He's gonna screw everything up," Mick complains as they walk up to the Russian's house.

"Probably," Len agrees. "No respect for expertise, this ship; making us thieve _and_ babysit."

"You know I'm right here and can hear you, right?" Ray says indignantly.

"We know," Len says. "The question I have for you is: do you think we care?"

Mick snorts.

Ray scowls for a moment, but just as Len thinks they might be digging in past the endless bright optimism into some real personality, his expression clears. "Hey, I know that!"

Len tries to snatch him back, but can't stop him from running straight up to the dummy box.

He groans.

"These people suck," Mick grumbles. 

"Fuck it," Len says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go get him out. I'm sending a ghost in first."

He hates to do it, especially for thieving – it feels too much like cheating. But it's not fair to be trying to rob a place with a six-foot-something idiotic impediment dragging him down, either.

"You do that." Mick gets up, shaking his head, and goes to ambush the guards confronting Ray.

While Mick entertains himself with that, Len tilts his head back. "Anyone here wanna help?"

Three ghosts pop up almost immediately.

Two women, a guy, all in their twenties. 

"Guy in here do for you?" Len asks, jerking his thumb towards the house.

"I got in where I shouldn't," the guy says with a shrug. "I was a housecleaner. My name is Sergey."

"Not for Maureen and me. We just crashed our car," one of the women says. 

“Trish!” Maureen exclaims.

"What? It’s true! Anyway, no relation to the guy who owns the place now. This was our old house, though, for a bit."

"Good enough. Anyway: I'm looking for this dagger, Egyptian..."

A few minutes later, Mick finally drags Ray back. Literally drags, with Ray trying unsuccessfully to dig his heels into the ground, which explains what took them so long.

"I said I'm _sorry_ ," Ray hisses. "There’s no need to pull me around! But anyway, it's not all bad. We got the guards, right?"

"We?" Mick echoes incredulously. “ _We_ got ‘em?”

"Okay, fine, _you_ got them. But I lured them in! That means we can go in and grab the dagger – "

"The guards not doing their rounds will set off alarms," Len says patiently. "As will the actual alarms that the dummy box set off. No. This is a bad job; I don't like doing heists without casing the joint in advance on a good day, and this job is clearly already snake-bit bad luck. No go."

Mick nods his agreement, but Ray puffs up like an angry toad. "Are you kidding? All that about you being thieves extraordinaire, and you just give up at the first sign of trouble?"

"Part of the reason I _am_ a thief extraordinaire, in fact," Len says dryly. "And not, you know, in prison all the time."

"If we don't get the dagger, we won't be able to stop Savage!"

"I never said we wouldn't be getting the dagger," Len says. "I said we wouldn't be going inside to get it."

Ray blinks. "I think I'm lost," he says. "How do you get the dagger without, uh, getting the dagger?"

"Note the pronouns."

"What?"

"He won't be going to get the dagger," Mick rumbles. "Doesn't mean _someone_ won't."

Right on cue, the bushes rustle and Sergey shows up, Trish and Maureen right on his heels. "I have it," Sergey says, beaming and holding out the dagger. He's shining with the life that Len gave him, strength flowing through his limbs. He is justly pleased: the life means he will be able to say his goodbyes to his wife and to tip off the police as to the location of his body, thus ensuring he will receive adequate burial according to the precepts of his religion, which is the thing he desires most.

Then he'll pass on, satisfied. Now that's what Len calls a good deal.

Trish and Maureen are pouting that they weren't the ones to get it first, but they do offer up some pretty necklaces as consolation. They want the life Len gave them to go spook their friends, which Len thinks is a perfectly acceptable reason, if slightly less mature than Sergey’s. Then again, they’re college girls; as Len well knows, they can be more or less serious in nature and these two are clearly fans of the 'less'. "Good, good," Len says, examining them. "That's great, girls."

"You got _patsies_ to do for you?!" Ray exclaims, only for Mick to loudly shush him. He does lower his voice, but still looks indignant. "It's too risky to go yourself, so you send someone else, is that it?"

"While I prefer to do these things myself – basically, yes," Len says. "And it worked, didn't it?"

"And you got the girls to steal for you, too! Ugh, I can't _believe_ you. What happens when they go back in there? Or if he finds out they took them? What'll he do to them?"

"Nothing worse than a car crash," Len says.

"What?"

"Just...never mind. We got the dagger, we got a stash, let's go before the Ruskie who owns them gets home."

Of course, thanks to Ray's earlier fuck up with the dummy box, that doesn't happen. Instead, a positive army of personal bodyguards sweeps into the place, encircling –

"Savage," Mick says. "This must be his house. Of course he'd have the dagger."

"This guy is everywhere," Len grumbles. "How'd he even make it here from the auction so fast?"

"Private jet. Baddies always have 'em," Mick says.

"Hey, _I_ used to have one," Ray says.

"Evil corporatist, huh?" Mick replies. "Knew you weren't that sweet, Haircut."

"Evil –? Wait, no, I didn't – I wasn't -"

"Shut up before my opinion of you drops further."

Len is peering through the bushes. "I think we're gonna need an exit strategy."

"Can't we just call the Waverider?" Ray asks, reaching for his comm link.

"Or we could sneak out and _then_ call them," Len says, snatching his hand. "Thereby not alerting Savage to the fact that it was us lifting the thing and thus maintaining the element of surprise. We'll need a distraction. Mick, burn the house."

"With pleasure."

"That's destruction of property," Ray says, sounding mildly appalled.

Len has _so much_ he could be saying about that, but he settles for "Yeah, Savage's property." 

That wipes Ray’s objections away. Len barely keeps from rolling his eyes – Ray clearly subscribes to the 'if it's good, it's good; if it's bad, it's bad' theory of the world, in which arson isn't arson if the guy suffering it is a murderer. Idiot idealists are incredibly dangerous, because they'll smile like puppies before, during, and after murdering you for society's good, because the fact that they're 'heroes' in their own minds makes it okay.

Len makes a mental note not to rely on Ray for anything beyond technical expertise.

He waits until the fire gets big enough to draw attention, then heads out, hissing for Ray to follow. They get back out over the fence by bashing the two guards left to watch the exit over the head, and a bit of scrabbling. Luckily, Ray _is_ pretty tall, which helps them get over the fence - maybe Len was too quick to judge him good for nothing.

"What about Mick?" Ray asks anxiously. "We can't just leave him to Savage."

Len mentally revises his opinion of Ray up a very, very small notch. At least he understands the idea of standing by your team. That counts for a lot, with Len.

"What about Mick?" Mick asks, stepping out of the brush behind Ray.

Ray yelps in surprise, then turns and _hugs_ Mick before Mick can get away.

Len snorts at Mick's horrified expression.

"We have the dagger," he says. "Let's go to a safe zone and call for a lift."

Once they're back on the Waverider, it turns out Team Suit also succeeded in their mission, so history is back on track.

"This dagger is what we'll use to kill Savage," Carter says, picking it up. "We should go immediately."

"He's in his own house surrounded by bodyguards," Len drawls. "How about you keep it in your pants and pick a better ambushing spot? Or do you just really enjoy failure?"

Carter bristles. "I've fought this man for two hundred and eight lifetimes --"

"And see what you've done with it," Len replies. "Dead, dead, dead, and – if I had to guess – _dead_."

"We defeated him in Central City less than eight months ago!"

"Well, _that_ clearly didn't take," Mick says, slouching further in his chair. "Have you considered letting the lady try?"

Kendra blinks. "Me?"

"Sure, why not? Since your boy-toy here has a string of failures a mile long, you can't possibly do any worse."

She flushes a bit. "I – I mean – I've never killed anybody?"

"Well, from what I gather from bird-brain here, neither has he," Len says.

Carter tries to throw a punch. It's laughably telegraphed.

Len ducks out of the way, knocks his legs out from under him, and kicks him over and steps on his chest. The entire process takes maybe ten seconds.

"Carter!" Kendra exclaims, but she sounds mostly amused. 

"If he's on his back, his wings are useless," Len tells her, using his weight to pin Carter. "Have either of you considered, I don't know, _practicing_ a bit?"

"I am the prince of countless armies – " Carter splutters, his face red. "I have lived centuries and fought in more battles than you can even _imagine_ – "

"Sure, in _other_ lifetimes," Len says. "How about this one? You ever do anything other than work out at the gym? You've got no instincts or muscle memory at _all_ from what I can tell."

"Mr. Snart, get off of Mr. Hall this instant," Hunter snaps, sweeping in through the door, jacket fluttering behind him. It looks practiced.

"He wasn't hurting him," Ray objects, which wins him an approving look from Mick. 

An idiot, clearly, but a loyal one. That counts for something in their book.

 _Fine_ , maybe Ray isn't all bad. 

"Regardless, I will not be having such behavior on my ship," Hunter says. "It's unprofessional."

Len steps off. "Thought you said we were the worst team you've ever worked with. And that you were a fugitive from your former bosses. I don't see why that makes you an expert on what's 'professional'."

"Says the _thief_ , Mr. Snart?" Hunter shoots back, as if that's a complete answer.

"Yeah," Len says, starting to get annoyed. "A _thief_ , and proud of it. A thief who _you_ recruited, knowing who I am and what I do. If you think I signed up for this mission to be your ace in the hole when you need a pair of light fingers, only to be ridiculed and judged for those same skills the rest of the time, think again."

"Yeah, that shit's got to stop," Sara says from the doorway. "When I agreed to stay, it was so that I could prove myself a hero. Not to be your – or anybody else's – pet killer."

Hunter looks chagrined, but not in the sort of way where he realizes he's been a jackass; instead it's in the sort of way where someone calls you on exactly what you've been planning and makes it sound so bad you realize you're going to have to actually adjust your plans to deal with the objection.

Len doesn’t like it. He’s never minded working with criminals, but he objects to working with rats that treat their crews like pawns to be used or thrown away without so much as a thought to them as actual human beings. 

Rip Hunter, it appears, is just that kind of rat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Len's thoughts and opinions about the Legends, not necessarily accurate descriptions of them. His opinion of people will grown and change as things go forward.


	28. 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: slight body horror

“So we ambush Savage,” Sara says. “Kill him with the dagger, be done with it.”

“Any reason we can’t just jump a few years forward to do it?” Len asks, leaning back in his seat. It’s not the most comfortable. Maybe he should sit on the floor. “Wait till the rage about losing it wears off and his guard drops again.”

“We might not _find_ him in the future, Mr. Snart," Hunter - no, Rip, at least until he's proven himself worthy of Len's respect - says. "Savage is extremely good at covering his tracks."

“A few months, then."

“He could move his entire house by then,” Ray objects. 

"Fine," Len says, starting to get aggravated. If no one else will suggest anything useful instead of just vetoing all his suggestions, he’ll keep throwing out ideas till they get it through their heads to listen to him. "Then we ought to stake out the house for a bit and see what his movements are like; we'll get a better idea about his capabilities in regards to – "

"We're not waiting!" Carter shouts, abruptly and out of the blue. Len manages not to flinch away, he's trained himself out of having any visible reaction to abrupt escalations in noise or violence, years ago, but it's incredibly unpleasant to have to master his reaction. "This man is a sick, sadistic murderer," Carter continues angrily. "Kendra and I will have no sort of life until he is dead. We attack _tonight_."

"A fine idea," Rip says approvingly.

"It's a _terrible_ idea," Len says. "Didn't you just say that this Savage guy can _sense_ the two of you? Why don't you let us go first, and – "

"There would be no point in going without them: Savage can only be killed by Mr. Hall or Ms. Saunders," Rip says dismissively. "As I've already explained, Mr. Snart."

Len grits his teeth. "Just because he can't be killed by us," he says, speaking slowly and a little loudly in case that helps drill his meaning into their well-meaning brains, "doesn't mean he can't be _captured_ by the rest of us, using _stealth_ , and then brought back here for execution and disposal, just in case this whole killing business ain't as straightforward as you think it – "

"If you're too much of a coward to join us, Snart, that's fine," Carter says, his voice positively regal. Len's never wanted to join a mob and chop off heads more. "But I, at least, am going to go. We will save the world tonight. Who's with me?"

"I'm with you," Ray says immediately. His eyes are all but shining with adoration for what he no doubt perceives as Carter’s heroism.

"We'll have your back," Jax says, nodding, though he shoots Len a guilty look.

"Well, I can't let you guys go alone, now can I?" Sara laughs.

Kendra is – oddly silent.

Mick glances at Len.

"Fine," Len says. "I'm saying up front that I think it's stupid, but I said we were in, so I guess we're in."

"Excellent," Rip says, rubbing his hands together. He thinks it's going to be easy, taking on an immortal in his own house. Desperation makes for optimism where it doesn't belong - damn, Len really wants to meet Rip's ghosts, which probably include the wife and son he's trying to save. Len can sympathize, but at the same time, this is why you don't let anyone who's grieving work as your planner. They just don't see straight. "Let's be off."

"First sign of trouble, I'm getting you out," Mick says to Len in an undertone. "Not negotiable."

"Do me a favor," Len murmurs back. "Keep an eye on Kendra. Thus far she has two modes that I've seen – shy and retiring barista, and berserker war goddess. That's not a good combo against someone who's had a long, long time to learn new tricks."

"Sure, boss. I'll be nice."

Mick waits until they're on the move, Carter in the lead with Rip, Kendra hanging back some, to split off from Len and go over to her.

"Worst customer," Mick says to her.

"What?"

"You were a barista, yeah? Never met one who didn't have a few good worst customer stories."

"Is now really the time?"

"Thinking about the fight's just gonna give you pre-fight jitters," Mick says firmly. "C'mon, worst customer. You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

Kendra arches her eyebrows. "You were a barista?"

"Crime doesn't always pay," Mick says with a straight face, then grins. "Nah, never did the coffee shop thing, but I worked part-time at a diner for a bit. Waiter and short-end cook."

"In Central?"

"Not far out of Keystone, like a glorified sort of truck stop. Farmland and people just passing through."

This is all technically true. Mick's just omitting the part where it happened in the 1930s. 

Minor detail, really. 

It is successful, though: Kendra smiles at last. "Don't get me started about the ones that are 'just passing through'," she says. "I worked at a truck stop in high school, too."

"Now there's a gold mine of awful."

"You have _no idea_ ," Kendra says. "This one time –"

Satisfied that Mick's keeping close to Kendra, Len goes over to Jax.

"Sorry, boss," Jax says right off. "Didn't mean to side with him over you."

"Don't worry about it," Len says. He doesn't believe in people not questioning his orders; if someone thinks he's wrong, he wants to know. Still... "Just curious – why _did_ you?"

"Seemed right at the moment." Jax shrugs. "It was pretty obvious that Carter was going to go anyway, and probably Ray, too, while the rest of crew was pretty nearly ready to stay back with you. I couldn't let the guys get themselves killed like that."

Len snorts. "The heroes are getting to you, I see. Fine, I take your point; just be sure that his stupidity doesn't get _you_ killed, got it? Your mother would kill me if I brought you back a ghost."

Jax laughs. 

"I'll need a minute once we're outside of the Waverider, just long enough to call us some back-up," Len continues, dropping his voice down. "If we’re gonna do this stupid thing, we should bring our whole armory. Now, I don’t think the ghost thing’s private or anything – well, not anymore, since I assume that's why I got recruited – but it’s not something I want to do a whole question-and-answer session about right before a battle. Mick'll cover me, of course, but –"

"I got your back, boss," Jax confirms.

He's a good kid. 

They land near Savage's house.

"This is a terrible idea," Len says in an undertone.

"Developing clairvoyance now?" Mick teases.

"Just common sense."

Once they step out of the Waverider, Len moves aside while Mick edges forward, covering him, and Jax starts loudly asking questions from across the clearing. No one’s paying attention; good. 

Len summons – well, not quite an army, but certainly the nearest dozen or so ghosts. He offers them life in exchange for fighting by his side; they agree, beaming at the thought of it.

Len's used to going into battle a little drained if need be, but right now he barely feels the expenditure. Mick stands by his side, watchful as ever, Len's sentinel and guardian, but there aren't any unquiet dead here.

"Get the guards first," Len tells his dozen ghosts. "Don't bother with visibility; save your power for doing the tackling."

They nod.

Ray and Kendra audibly yelp when Len's ghosts rush past them, arms extended, tackling the guards posted on the perimeter. Sara doesn't, but she's crouched and watchful. Rip seems unsure of what’s going on, at first, which isn’t really promising - maybe he didn't know exactly the full extent of Len's powers? Which would be weird, given that that's presumably why he recruited him. But no, a second later, Rip's face is back to neutral and he's shouting out instructions again, so presumably the issue is more that knowing about something isn't exactly the same as seeing it. Or not-seeing it, as the case may be.

"Keep going," Jax shouts.

Carter doesn't pay the ghosts or the guards any mind and keeps rushing forward, which may not be heavy on tactics but has the benefit of being very efficient: he's already in the house.

Which means, unfortunately, that now he's going up against Savage all but alone. The _idiot_ , he's going to get himself killed. This is the worst of all possible plans.

Len beelines after him, cold gun at ready, a ghost or two at his back.

He's too late to help.

But he's just in time to see Savage snatch the dagger from a chanting Carter in one slick move, laugh in his face, and stab him with it. 

Carter staggers back, gagging.

"This is _Chay-ara's_ dagger," Savage gloats. "Only _she_ may use it against me."

Well, _that_ rule would've been useful to know up front.

Damnit, Len _knew_ this wasn't going to be that straightforward.

Len takes a step forward, raising his gun and aiming it – he can't kill Savage, per Rip's briefing, but he might at least be able to slow him down and possibly save Carter – but then _it_ happens.

Len freezes. 

To most eyes, all they would see is some amorphous cloud drifting out of Carter's mouth.

To Len's eyes –

God, King of the World –

_No_.

Savage's own spirit rears up from within his body, rising up until it's actually hovering _outside_ of Savage's body, almost disconnecting from it as it does, and reaches out towards Carter. Savage's spirit is twisted and deformed, a monstrous, bloated giant of a ghost, barely recognizable as the same being as the body it inhabits, identifiable only by same curled lip and squinting eyes, and it puts its hands on Carter and _rips_ Carter's spirit out of his still-living body.

Not all at once, no.

That would be too quick for the monster.

It rips Carter to pieces while he's still in his body, plucks off his arms like a cruel child with a butterfly's wing, rips out his heart, his stomach, his eyes; it _gorges_ on them, stuffing its ghastly mouth, swallowing them and growing larger as it does.

Len's mind is distantly aware of the fact that he's frozen in the midst battle, and he _never_ freezes up in a battlefield, but he can't bring himself to move.

Savage's spirit hovers above the man – if Savage can even be described as a man any more – like an aura, a giant too large to fit into a body, grown huge by devouring the life of others - of Carter and Kendra, a hundred, two hundred times over -

And then one of Len's ghosts, shining with life, rushes in to do battle, gleeful and eager to do Len's bidding, wanting only to help, and then the monstrous spirit sees them – and it _reaches_ for that free-flying ghost, just as it reached for Carter –

"Back," Len screams, finding his voice, visions of death and worse in his eyes. Death that he led his ghosts to, lambs to the slaughter; to the death of the soul in the most violent way he’s ever seen. "Get away!"

He's only ever asked, not ordered, never ordered, but this is as close to an order as he's ever meant it. The ghost disappears as though it was never there.

The spirit – and Savage – turn their disconnected eyes upon him.

"So Gareeb has brought a necromancer with him this time," they both say, lips horribly out of time with each other like some sort of bad dubbed movie, and it says something to how horrified Len is that he doesn’t even complain about being called a necromancer for the millionth time. "But my little necromancer, you won't go far if you won't make sacrifices."

And they smile, broad and large and grotesque. "I will make them for you."

And then he reaches for _Len_ , and Len can feel him coming, like an army of the unquiet dead, all in one sick monster – how he had missed this monster before, hidden away under Savage's slick exterior, he will never know –

Len staggers back.

And Mick comes, as he always comes when Len is in danger.

Mick, who loves him.

Mick, who is a _ghost_ , and who can be ripped apart for this monster's pleasure in causing pain.

No.

_No_.

This is one sacrifice Len will _not_ permit.

“Back to the ship,” he snaps at Mick.

“What? But –”

“ _Now!_ ”

Mick shoots him a look filled with anger and hurt, but Len is bringing the full force of his will to bear and he, too, disappears.

Len will apologize later. Preserving Mick’s life – preserving his _existence_ – is more important.

Len raises his cold gun and fires.

Savage is hit and staggers back, the ice forming over him, but the spirit within him just laughs and laughs and laughs –

Len turns and runs.

He gets outside – gets halfway to the ship – before he stops long enough to be sick by a tree.

He hasn’t thrown up in _years_.

When he’s done, he puts his forehead against the tree’s bark, closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths. 

Then another few, because that was – that was _unimaginable_. 

It takes Len a while to stagger to his feet and head the rest of the way back to the ship.

When he returns to the ship, everything has gone wrong there, too.

Mick is pacing, furious, and Jax and Stein are shouting, Rip is shouting, Ray is shouting, and Kendra is bleeding and howling for Carter. Sara is covered in blood, feral smile frozen and fading as she realizes what she’s done, how many she’s murdered.

“We need to get out of here,” Len says. “Now.”

“Mr. Snart!” Hunter exclaims, spinning to turn him. “How dare you show your face after that wretched retreat – right in the middle of battle –”

“You sent me away,” Mick says, speaking over him. “Boss, what happened? You _never_ send me away!”

“Ms. Saunders requires medical aid –” Stein is saying. 

“Carter – _Carter_ –” Kendra weeps.

“But if we delay, Savage will get _away_ –” Hunter starts.

“All of you, shut the hell up,” Len says quietly, but making sure his voice carries so that everyone can hear him, and his ghosts – banished from the scene, but not gone – flood the Waverider to stand at ready, invisible soldiers at attention. He's pulled them in, past the natural ghost-repelling aspects of the time ship, past everything, come to stand by his side and face down his enemies. 

They’re not needed, though; the Waverider crew all turn to him and glare. 

“Savage ripped Carter’s spirit in half and ate him,” Len says tiredly. “And he saw me – saw what I am – and he wanted to eat my soul, too. We need to get out of here, and we need to rethink our entire approach.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Hunter says. “He’s not capable –”

“He is,” Len says flatly, waving his hand to dismiss the ghosts, who slink away, deeply relieved to be off the ship and away from the repelling effect. If they’re going to jump, the ghosts can’t be here. “We need to go. _Now_. Gideon, will there be any problems jumping into the time stream?”

“Ms. Saunders will not be able to handle such a jump,” Gideon says apologetically.

“Fine. Then just get us away and fly us somewhere else. Someone get Kendra to the medical lab and fix her – what happened to her?”

“Since you _left_ ,” Ray says, glaring, looking a bit hurt about it, “you wouldn’t know, but Savage hit her with the dagger. We were barely able to get her away.”

“We fire-blasted him,” Jax says. “Savage - he was trying to _eat_ you? Really?”

Len nods.

“Is that why you sent me off?” Mick asks. “You thought – me?”

“Carter’s spirit was still in his _body_ and Savage ripped him to pieces like a particularly vicious child playing with an ant,” Len says. “I couldn’t risk it.” He closes his eyes. Mick’s still pissed at him, he can tell; they’re supposed to be partners. Len isn’t supposed to make those types of calls for him, especially when Mick getting to safety might leave Len in more danger. 

Mick snarls and spins on his heel, storming off.

“Mr. Snart,” Rip says, the whine in his voice sounding like he’s about to start lecturing. Len doesn’t have the energy to deal with this. 

“Gideon,” Len snaps. “There is a virtual army of armed guards out there, no doubt heading towards our position. Please confirm.”

“Mr. Snart is correct, Captain.”

“Very well,” Rip says ungraciously. “Take us somewhere safe, Gideon. We must ensure that Ms. Saunders survives.”

“Yeah, or else your revenge plan gets a lot shorter,” Len sneers. “Or are you just going to wait for her next reincarnation?”

“Listen here, you coward –”

“Enough fighting!” Sara shouts. “We get to safety, we make sure Kendra’s all right, and then we figure out what we’ll do next. This fighting isn’t helping anyone.”

Hunter glares. “Gideon, if you please.”

Gideon takes off.

Sara drifts over to Len again.

Len’s going to have to do something about that. It’s undoubtedly her ghostly side that makes her draw near, but he’s never managed to figure out how to make ghosts go away. Not beyond that one horrible time at his father’s hands…

“What do you think?” she asks him.

“What do you mean?” he asks tiredly.

"Savage. Is he beatable?"

Pragmatic. He likes that in a person.

"I think we don't have a choice," Len tells her. "Someone has to."

Sara nods. "I'll get Rip back on track. I'm sure I can think of something that will make him feel like we're making progress, so that he'll stop blaming the rest of us for screwing this up. He's grieving; you know how it makes people a bit crazy, especially when they feel like they're stuck in a rut."

"I usually do a heist when I'm feeling like that," Len agrees. 

"Not a bad idea, actually," Sara says thoughtfully. "Savage was running an auction, he's got to have funds, and those funds have to be kept somewhere..."

Len nods. That makes sense. "A bank, then? Worth seeing if Rip will bite."

"Might even do some damage to Savage, too," she says with a faint smile, and goes.

Len decides to bite the bullet himself and slinks over to the room he's been assigned.

Mick is radiating annoyance.

"You're not made of glass?" Len offers weakly, trying to preempt the yelling-at he’s almost certain to get. 

"You sent me away," Mick says. "Away. When there was someone who wanted to hurt you."

Len winces.

It's true.

"He'd ripped Carter's ghost apart," Len tries to explain.

"Carter's ghost isn't – wasn't – properly bound to his body. We knew that already. There's no reason to assume it works on ghosts."

Len shakes his head. "Mick, if you'd seen him..."

"You are just as vulnerable, then. More, if he realized what you can do."

Len makes a face. "He called me a necromancer."

Mick's lips quirk in amusement for half a second before he remembers that he's mad at Len. "Everyone does."

"They're wrong," Len says mulishly.

"Of course they are. That isn't the problem. The problem is - you were in _danger_."

"I know."

"And you sent me away."

"I did."

"You _never_ send me away again, you hear me?" Mick says. "You don't do that. We’re partners. You get me?"

Len presses his lips together and looks away. He remembers the gut-churning terror that had come upon him when the spiritual cannibal had risen out of Savage's flesh, remembers how Carter couldn't even scream as his ghost was disemboweled. He wonders, bile rising, if a ghost not bound to a body would be similarly quiet.

"Len?"

"I can't promise that," Len whispers.

Mick looks at him for a long moment.

And then, without another word, for the first time in – years, in _years_ , not since the horrible fire in Shreveport – he disappears from Len's sight.

Great.

This job's barely a day in and everything's just _peachy_. 

He heads back out to the main deck, since there's no point in staying in the room. He takes the long route, double-checking all the nooks and crannies, giving himself the time to calm himself down and recover his cool.

And to try to think of something he can do to get Mick to stop being angry at him.

By the time he gets back there, it turns out that Sara successfully convinced Rip to make a play at a bank, and Len immediately volunteers to come with them. Much to his surprise, Mick does, too, coming in from the next hallway over, but it ends up being a moot point: Rip immediately vetoes their suggestion of coming along with.

Even though they’re _clearly_ the experts on banks here. 

"How'd you do that, coming through different hallways?" Sara asks him.

"We're in sync," Len tells her, then cuts his eyes towards Mick. "Mostly."

Mick nods. Len breathes a little easier. Good. Mick's mad at him, but he's not _that_ mad.

Also, reappearing for dramatic effect is a classic Mick move. He knows how much Len enjoys it when he puts on a little bit of flair. 

Sara looks reluctant to leave them behind, but goes with Rip anyway, her sense of duty and purpose easily overcoming her ghostly desire for some of his life.

Well, Len assumes that's what it is.

"Maybe she's just got a crush on you," Mick suggests.

Len rolls his eyes at him, and Mick grins. 

Len can't help but grin back. 

Good. Mick's improved mood will make him more receptive to Len's idea of a good please-forgive-me gift.

"Now that they're gone, and with Stein and Ray busy curing Kendra, whatever _shall_ we do with the free time left to us?" Len drawls, and pulls out the unlocking device Rip uses with the ship. Specifically, with the jump ship.

"I like the way you think," Mick says, his grin widening. 

"Let's go steal something."

"Let's," Mick agrees.

They go to find Jax.

"Hey, kid," Len says, nodding at the ship. "You too much of a hero to take this baby out for a joyride?"

Jax grins up at them. "Never. But to make it run, I need the – "

Len holds up the device he stole from Rip.

"You're the _best_ ," Jax enthuses, snatching it from Len's hand. "Strap in and let's see what this baby can do. Where to?"

"We're not far from Central," Mick observes. 

"We don't want to run into anybody there," Len objects, thinking of his father. His father, who was still a cop at that time – dirty, yes, and about to be arrested for a terribly planned emerald heist, if Len's got the timeline right, but he's still _there_.

Still alive, still a threat. 

Len doesn't want to go anywhere near him. 

"He'll be hitting that museum around this time; we can just avoid that area entirely," Mick says, understanding Len's concern. "I was more thinking we'd target the Repository."

Len brightens. The Repository - a warehouse for high-end goods - had a reputation for being notoriously unbreakable in Len's youth; it had eventually been the OPEC crash in the early 80s that felled it, not the local thieves, and Len had been too young to give it a proper shot. "We could do that."

"You guys are such adrenaline hogs," Jax laughs, but he sets the navigation to Central City. "Just remember not to be too obvious, okay? If you do manage to crack the place, make sure no one finds out, or it won't have the same reputation."

"We'll stick to selfies showing we did it," Len lies.

Jax snorts in disbelief.

"And maybe one or two small, innocuous items of value," Len concedes. 

"Uh-huh."

"They'd cover up a small jewel heist," Mick says. "They specialize in security for all the top corporations in Central, after all; if it was ever let out that they weren't unbreakable, they'd have no business model."

"And Lisa made you promise to get her souvenirs," Jax says.

"And Lisa made us promise to get her souvenirs," Len agrees.

"You guys know you'll have to do this job on the fly, right? No casing the place, no – "

"Jax, I'm hurt," Len says. "You think that a pair of young, up-and-coming criminals in Central City at no point daydreamed over the blueprints for the Repository?"

"Oh, well, if we're talking about a childhood _dream_ here – "

Jax lands them on the roof.

Yes, Len knows that's an unfair advantage, but as Jax says, they're working with a bit of an artificial time limit. Namely, as much time as it'll take someone else on their so-called Legends team to get into trouble and start calling for help.

Len has his money on Rip and Sara screwing up the bank job.

The heist itself is just a delight from start to finish. Between Mick’s ghostly abilities and Len’s gun, they have all the equipment they really need to get the job done, and their skills are more than up for the task.

They get selfies in front of one of the open safes and pick up a crate of earrings that they think the girls – Lisa, Iris, Jesse, the whole lot of ‘em – will like.

“Now that’s what I call a clean heist,” Len says with satisfaction once they're back on the jump ship. “Thanks for being our getaway driver, Jax.”

“My pleasure, as always.”

Len laughs. “Let’s get the hell back to the Waverider.”

“Not yet,” Mick says. “One more stop.”

Len frowns. “What’re you talking about Mick?”

Mick has a set expression, like he’s going to do something and he won’t be moved. “1629 Handley Avenue.”

Len’s mouth goes dry.

“What’s on Handley Avenue?” Jax asks.

“It’s where I grew up,” Len says. “Mick – why…?”

“Just go,” Mick instructs Jax, who takes one look at the two of them and nods, turning and focusing on his driving while also visibly pretending he can’t hear them.

Len doesn’t understand. “I thought we were trying to _avoid_ my dad,” he hisses at Mick, reaching out and snatching Mick’s sleeve to tug at it. “Not to mention trying to keep from messing up the timeline!”

“We are,” Mick replies. "On both counts."

“Then why – ?”

“There weren’t all that many ghosts at the Repository,” Mick replies. 

“Well, yeah, okay, there weren't _that_ many,” Len says, puzzled. “There were still a decent number, though.”

“Nothing like what you’ve been drawing in recently,” Mick says. 

“So?”

“There’s a reason for that, though. Their attention is split.”

“I don’t get you. What do you mean?”

Mick’s hand shoots out and grabs Jax’s shoulder, even though they’re not yet at Handley Avenue. “Stop here,” he instructs.

They’re hovering over the grocery store that Len grew up with, the one that was twenty minutes away and always a special treat to get to go to. 

There’s a black woman loading up her car in the darkened parking lot.

Len inhales sharply and his fingers tighten on Mick’s arm until his knuckles go white. 

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t _think_.

He can only stare at a face that he's very nearly forgotten in the depths of his memory.

“You know her?” Jax asks, twisting to look at Len. 

“Yeah,” Mick says for Len, who’s gone mute in shock. “That’s his mom.”


	29. 28

“I can’t go _talk to her_ ,” Len hisses. “What if I – I could change my past, I could erase myself from existence –”

“You’ve already been born by this time,” Mick points out.

“You don't know that it matters! The butterfly effect could be real! Time could be flexible in multiple directions!”

“Boss, calm down,” Jax says. “It’ll be okay.”

“Next time we’re in the '90s, let’s go find _your_ dad and see how okay _that_ is,” Len mutters ungraciously.

“…ouch. That’s harsh, man.”

Len feels a stab of guilt. Jax is young and doesn't deserve Len lashing out at him like an upset toddler.

Though Mick giving Jax a significant look and Jax nodding like he understands something isn't helping Len's temper in the slightest. 

Jax gets up and slips away to the back of the jump ship with a murmur about engines that he doesn't even bother to try to make convincing.

Mick puts his hand on Len's shoulder.

Len shakes his head.

"Len..."

"Why?" Len asks, doing his best to keep his voice level. "Why did you bring me here to see her? I know you had a reason."

Mick sighs.

"And it ain’t just sentiment, either," Len continues. "You know I can't - I can't – you know I _can't_ stop her death, stupid and pointless as it was, not without risking everything else I hold dear. If Mom had lived, Dad might not've been able to con Lisa's mom into marrying him, and then I wouldn't have Lisa. If Mom'd been around, later, then maybe - she might've – " Len swallows. "Mick, if I don't go to juvie, I don't meet you, Mick. I just - I don't know who I'd be without you and Lisa, Mick. I ain't willing to risk it. I _can't_ risk it. And what does that say about me as a son, that I can't take a risk to save my own mom's life?"

"I wouldn't ask you to try to change that," Mick says firmly and Len breathes out a sigh of relief. Mick sometimes gets stupid ideas into his head about Len's life being better without him, and he's not willing to risk Mick having something equally dumb in mind when they are so close to something that could fundamentally alter Len's very self –

The mere thought is terrifying in a bone-deep way that Len typically associates with memories of his dad, or with mediums, or the unquiet dead come for him at last.

"I wouldn't do that to you," Mick adds seriously. "You are who you are, and I like who you are. And not wanting to change everything about who you are as a person doesn't say anything about you as a son, just so you know. All your memories - they make you who you are. Changing 'em is basically suicide. Your mom would never trade a few extra years of her life for you to do that, and you know that damn well."

Len nods mutely. Mick's right. It might hurt, he might want to make the change, but Mick's right - he's not a bad person for refusing to do it. 

Besides, trying to change things, telling her about her death - what if it happened anyway? All telling her would accomplish would be to ruin her life up until that point. 

He won't do that, not just to feel better about himself and say that he tried. 

No. 

No changes.

"I was just thinking, y'know," Mick continues, "that you might like..."

"To see her again?"

" _Answers_ ," Mick says. "Answers to questions she had no reason to think you had, as young as you were. What happens when one of your family hits their forties. Why they all die. What can be done to _prevent_ it."

Len takes that like a punch in the gut. Mick always knew Len better than Len did himself, and he was always thinking of Len, every minute, everything he ever does. 

Len shouldn't take that for granted, the way he sometimes does. 

Len swallows and nods. "Yeah," he says hoarsely. "That's a good idea."

"I have them occasionally," Mick says solemnly.

Len snorts, the tension breaking. "You have 'em a lot and you know it. Now tell me, o source of good ideas, how am I supposed to convince her to talk to a forty year old man she don't know about a family curse that’s supposed to be a secret?"

Mick pauses. "Uh," he says. "I hadn't thought about that."

"Uh, guys?" Jax says, poking his head into the room they're in. "Len, your – jeez this is weird – your mom's cursing up a storm. Her car's blown a fuse, I think. Should I offer to fix it? Might give us an 'in' with her."

"Yeah," Len says, making a decision. "And I'll come with you. Mick, you stay here to make sure the others don't call us with an emergency."

Mick nod, looking relieved. 

Len and Jax head over, Jax striding forward confidently while Len dawdles a bit behind, staring a bit at her. 

At his _mom_. 

Shoshana Snart; Shoshana Mizrahi, before she'd made a terrible mistake and run away with a young non-Jewish police officer and got cut off from the rest of her family. She's as beautiful as she remembers, brown skin only a few handfuls of shades darker than his own, clear and fresh like a much younger woman's, black hair like his that curls so wildly that she cuts it to a few inches short again and again against her husband's wishes and despite the consequences. It rises around her head like a halo. Crooked smirk that sits easily on her mouth, like his; brown eyes, unlike his. 

There's a handful of friendly ghosts around her, too; they're studying the car and teasing each other about who could fix it best. One is swearing that his Model T worked just the same way, and Shoshana is trying not to laugh at their antics, Len can see that.

His _mom_.

The only other person he’d ever met who was just like him.

Len was a little kid when she died; he'd been resentful of it for years, though having Lisa had done a lot to make him grudgingly accept it. 

But Mick was right – Shoshana is more than just his mom. She's a source of information about their family, about their curse, if he could just think of a way to ask questions that wouldn't result in her freaking out and punching him. Len remembers hearing his mom boast about the strength of her right hook once...

"— I would appreciate you taking a look," his mom is saying to Jax, her voice a little accented and formal – her parents hadn't spoken a word of English when they'd arrived, and it'd taken quite some time before they'd trusted her to the American school system. Len had always found her accent deeply comforting. "Thank you, young man. I will assume for your benefit that you are not planning on making a terrible mistake and trying to rob me."

Jax splutters some denials, while Len snorts in amusement.

That makes her turn to look at him, her lips still quirked up in a ghost of a smile –

And then her face goes pale. " _Leonard_?" she gasps.

Len freezes.

"I, uh, he – " Jax stutters. They hadn't expected her to recognize him – _how_ could she recognize him? Would he visit her again in his future but her past or something? Damn time travel: it messes up even the most straightforward – or not straightforward – encounters...

Well, as his mother used to tell him, once the bull is charging, you shouldn't stand around wishing you hadn't waved the red flag.

"How did you know?" Len asks, cutting through Jax's garbled denials.

She quirks up a smile. "You are my son," she says. " _Tinochi, libi_ – I would recognize you anywhere."

Len arches a skeptical eyebrow at her. Oddly enough, that makes her laugh, a real laugh breaking free almost despite herself.

"You feel like family," she says, still laughing. "It is the casual way they surround you, the spirits; they love no one more than you, even me. I have become accustomed to the very specific way they do it around you – do you know, I used to have to chase them away from you with a broom when you were just born? I still do, nowadays; just not as often.”

Len laughs abruptly, too. “No, I didn’t know that.” He can just see it, too – he’s seen her go after feral cats that were invading her little vegetable garden that way, wielding a broom and shouting “ _kishta!_ ” at them until they scattered. 

“And those were all friendlies, too! We are very lucky that the unquiet dead are uninterested in babies,” she says. “Too small, not enough life, or else none of us would reach adulthood, I suspect.”

“You recognize me just from that?” Len asks. 

“In part,” she says, smiling warmly. “But even if I didn't recognize you before, though, that one-eyebrow-up you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression would have done it – you look _exactly_ like your grandfather."

"You didn't talk about him much," Len says, curious and unable to resist. "And he died when I was, what, a year old?"

Shoshana nods. "He was fifty-two; it was past time," she says. "I light him candles –"

"On Memorial Day," Len says, nodding. He tried to light one for her, every year for the first ten, though sometimes his attempted thefts were unsuccessful and the best he could light for her were matches. He hoped that was enough.

"Your family really does die when you're fifty?" Jax asks, looking up from the car with a frown. "We'd been kinda hoping he was joking about that..."

"Are you family to him, then?" Shoshana asks Jax. "Some stepson, or a very young stepbrother..?"

Jax starts shaking his head in negation, so Len says, "Yeah, he's family. Chose him myself, and now I can't get rid of 'im."

Jax looks stunned, and more than a little touched. "I, uh, ditto," he says, ducking his head a bit, and quickly turns back to the engine. "Sorry that it's taking so long, ma'am."

"No, do not worry," she says wryly. "That beast would take a necromancer to revive."

Jax grins. "I'd make a joke about not being your family for real –"

"We aren't _necromancers_ ," Shoshana and Len say in automatic chorus, then look at each other in surprise.

"— but you aren't necromancers," Jax finishes, snickering. "Don't worry, though; I've got a good idea of the problem now."

"You are a good boy," Shoshana says approvingly. "Now, enough distractions – how are you here, Leonard? Is this time travel, like in the books?"

Len pointedly ignores Jax's mumbled "hey, look, that's where he got the sci-fi geek gene" and says, "Yeah, exactly. We're traveling with a group of others to stop –" He makes a face. "— an immortal tyrant."

"Men are not meant to be immortal."

"His spirit comes free of his body and devours ghosts," Len says, shivering at the memory. "He has two he needs to kill in every life, since they reincarnate, but he's too bloated to just rely on them. He's awful."

Shoshana's face looks a lot like what Len expects his own looks like, twisted in disgust. "He was probably a medium in life," she snorts. "They aren't right in the head."

"Oh my God you guys are so similar," Jax giggles from under the hood.

Len glares at him, even though he has to admit it's true. 

"I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions," he says to her.

She nods. "Our family," she says with a sigh. "We die too early, with questions unanswered only to be relearned in pain in the next generation. We try to teach what's important, what's most important, but it's never enough." Then she grins, big and broad. "Though using time travel to ask a few more is certainly a new approach."

"Long live the glorious future."

"Live long and prosper," she replies, holding up her hand in the Vulcan salute. 

Jax's badly-suppressed giggles intensify.

"I will answer your questions, if I can," she adds, and smiles. "But first you must come here and let me embrace you."

Len is in her arms before he even knows he's moved. She's so small, his mother – small to him now, at any rate, where when she died she'd been a giant. She was a tall woman in life, but he's taller still. 

It all goes away when he holds her in his arms. "Ima," he says. "Oh, _Ima_ –"

She cradles him close. "I'm so happy I get to see you all grown up," she whispers to him, kissing his cheek. "I knew I never would. You have made me the happiest of mothers."

Len squeezes his eyes shut. He might be crying. He hasn't cried for – he doesn't even remember. 

They stand there for a minute or two longer, before –

"Oi, stop gawking, you!" she snaps over his shoulders. "All of you! _Kishta!_ Shoo!"

Len looks up.

They're surrounded by ghosts. 

"It's the joy," Shoshana says grumpily. "They always come by for it. Like asshole cats, every one of them."

Len can't help but laugh. "Yeah,” he says, swallowing through the emotion. “Yeah, they do that. I'm so happy Mick sets up a perimeter for our bedroom..."

"Mick?"

"My partner," Len says, then revises to, "My husband." He knows it's the ‘70s, but there are some parts of him he's not denying.

But his mom is nodding, not recoiling. "Maybe I should have said that you're more like Great-Aunt Ofra, then," she says. "Still, I am glad to see the progress we as a culture have been making has continued."

Len reviews his mental timeline and realizes his error: the 70s, era of disco and anti-war protests and the last bits of the free-love 60s, before the conservative 80s and AIDS had a chance to ruin everything. Right. 

Jax is definitely gaping in shock, though. 

"But enough," Shoshana continues firmly. "I do not know how long you can afford to stay. What questions do you have?"

"It's about our family," Len says, then stops, uncharacteristically hesitant. 

His mother takes his hand and squeezing it. "I'd gathered."

"I'm forty-two," he tells her. "I want to know – what I have to look forward to. Why do we all die? I always thought it was because the unquiet dead overwhelm us once we had less to fight them back with, but I feel _more_ powerful, not less – "

His mother is nodding.

"Then what _happens_?" Len asks. "If I've got less than ten years to live, I want to know why."

"Have you commanded any large groups of spirits?" his mother asks.

"Well, yeah," Len says, slightly puzzled by the question but willing to go with it. "To save my city – and, well, possibly the multiverse one time – "

"Have you ever been swept away by the power of it? The legions under your command? The sheer scope of power that a mastery over the dead gives you?"

"You mean my little passing megalomaniacal moments? Yeah, I mean – wait, that's _normal_?"

"All power corrupts," Shoshana says. "As we get older, we become more vulnerable – not so much to the unquiet dead, but to ourselves, and to our power."

"How come we've never taken over the world, then?" Len demands, because he knows all too well the feeling of power. The _certainty_ that he could do it, that the world could be his, if only he want it.

"Because it's a feeling, not a reality," Shoshana tells him. "The power sweeps you up, becomes addictive, and next you know you're spending it in bursts and gushes and then – when you've unwisely spent the gift Adonai has given you – then the unquiet dead come for you."

"So, what, the key to not dying is not to try to take over the world?" Len asks skeptically. 

She shakes her head. "The stronger you get, the more desirable you are,” she says. “Those who want power will come for you, they will hunt you. You may escape them, you may not, it doesn’t matter. Either way, one day, you will find something that is worth giving up your life for. Something _important_. Some terror you have to stop, something you have to save – something that's so important it's worth all the power and life in the world. You'll see. It's our family’s duty and right to give ourselves up to make the world a better place."

Len nods, thinking of Savage, thinking of Cabrera, of the black hole. He'd come so close to losing it all each time, but defeating them - it would have been worth it, even if he'd died. Defeating Savage - that might be it, for him; that might be his something important enough. 

And also, that means - he doesn't know what exactly it was that drained his mother so that the unquiet dead could get her, too young, too early, and he still half-blames his father for it, for draining her, but if she died doing something important, something that was her _right_ to do, then - well, it still hurt, her death. But somehow that ancient wound hurts a little less.

"Seems like a crap deal to me," Jax says, closing the hood of the car. "Car's done; give it a go."

"We're Jews," Shoshana says wryly. "Making crap deals with Adonai Eloheinu is practically a given."

"But we get to light a lot of things on fire in the process," Len agrees.

"Speaking of fire," Mick calls from somewhere behind Len, making Len twist to look at him in surprise; he hadn't heard him approaching. "We're needed. Something went wrong at the bank. Sara and Rip."

"Knew it," Len grumbles. Rip and Sara – the desperate man and the bloodthirsty woman, trying their hand at a skill that requires delicacy and patience. Why is he not surprised? "Okay, Mick; we're on our way."

He knows he needs to, but he doesn't want to go. He wants to stay, and talk, and learn all the things his mother never had a chance to teach him. He wants to get to know her. He wants – he so desperately wants to tell her how she dies and warn her and make it so he never had to know what growing up without a mother was like. But that would lose him Lisa, and he can’t lose Lisa. That would lose him Mick, and he can't lose Mick. And he can't bring himself to ask her to give up whatever it was that she thought was so important that she had to go so early. 

He won't tell her, but he still doesn't want to go.

"This is Mick?" Shoshana asks, perking up. " _Your_ Mick? Your husband Mick?"

Mick abruptly looks like a deer in the headlights.

"Well, step forward, let me have a look at you!" she insists, moving forward herself. "Anyone who won my son – oh." She frowns. “Oh, dear.”

"How do you do, ma'am," Mick croaks. 

"Leonard Jacob Snart," Shoshana says. "This man is a _ghost_."

"He's been dead since 1936," Len agrees, feeling unaccountably cowed. He hasn't had his full name used against him in _decades_. Apparently it makes him feel six years old again.

Shoshana crosses her arms. "Have you considered the morality at issue here?"

"I'm not coercing him!" Len exclaims, realizing the source of her concern. "I met him when I was _fourteen_ ; ghosts didn't even like me all that much back then!"

"They liked you when you were fourteen _months_ old -"

"He doesn't coerce me, ma'am," Mick interrupts. "No overruling my will. Trust me, I'd know."

"Ever?" she says, pinning them both with a hard look. "The truth; I insist."

Len can _feel_ the power his mom is exerting. It's warm; nothing like the chill of Cabrera's spells. It's alive, that's what it is. It's _life_. 

"He sent me away because he was afraid I'd be eaten once," Mick says. "Uh. He also made me calm down during a panic attack once. That's it."

"Since he was fourteen?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hmph," she says. "I hope you didn't immediately jump into a relationship?"

"Not for several years, ma'am."

"...fine," she says, then smiles. "So tell me about yourself."

"We have to go!" Mick yelps.

"Then come and give me a hug," she says. "If this will be the only time I'll see you."

Mick falters. "Really?"

"You are my son-in-law, no? Come here."

Mick hugs her. 

Len memorizes the image, burns it into his mind. He never thought he'd be so lucky as to see this. He never thought he'd be able to introduce Mick to – well, anybody but Lisa. Never thought that he'd be able to be yelled at for matters of ghostly consent by his mom, either, but whatever, he'll take it.

It's his mom. It's only really sinking in now – it's his _mom_ –

Len steps forward and grabs two of his three favorite people in the world into a hug.

"He's not normally a hugger," Mick tells Shoshana. 

"He wasn't even as a child," she replies with a smile. "Now get going; save your friends. Fix the world."

"We will," Len promises.

Mick all but drags him back to the jump ship.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Len says blankly when he's strapped in – Mick did it for him, citing shock, which is a dirty lie. Len's not sure why he can't move right, but it's definitely not shock. 

"Aren't you Jewish?" Jax asks with a grin.

"Jews curse like the dominant culture," Len replies. "Example: go fuck yourself."

Jax snorts.

"Get to the bank," Mick instructs.

They get to the bank.

Mick, naturally, bursts in with a loud, "Heard there was a party!"

Honestly, and people say _Len_ is a drama queen.

"We've brought our own invitations!" Len shouts, brandishing his gun.

Okay, maybe they'd be a little bit right, but in his defense, slick humor is the oldest emotional armor he's got and he's had a very trying day.

And that's even _before_ he sees the familiar-looking circle painted underneath Carter Hall's dead body.

Goddamn fucking _mediums_. His mom was right - Savage was a medium in his original life, and he's kept up practice. 

Honestly, sometimes Len wonders who he pissed off to get such horrifically bad luck, but then he reminds himself that he _is_ cursed. Also that he's a thief, a murderer, a liar, and he sure as hell doesn't respect his parents...actually, it'd probably be quicker to list the commandments Len _hasn’t_ shattered into tiny bits.

Okay, maybe the shit luck is a bit justified.

"Jax! Break that circle!" Len shouts even as he ducks into the fray, his gun lifted, his partner at his side, and his ghosts swirling above him. He's perfectly willing to send the ghosts away if he needs to, if he sees Savage go near them, but until then, he'll use them.

"On it!" Jax says, running forward. Len scans the room: Sara's fighting some sort of Swiss ninja – no, Len's not even bothering to justify that one mentally, he'll roll his eyes later – and Rip is grappling with Savage, thankfully still encased in his human body at the moment, and –

Wait, is Rip _telling_ Savage the name of his wife and son?

Len very nearly stops providing covering fire for Jax, he's so horrified. A handful of assholes leap at Len in what appears to be a moment of weakness.

Nearly doesn’t mean he _actually_ stops, though, Len thinks as he ices three more would-be acolytes mid-leap. These assholes are stubborn and strong, though, so a few more quickly replace them as those ones struggle past frostbite to try to come at him –

Fuck, Rip's not just a rat, the grief has gotten to him so bad that he's either self-sabotaging out of guilt or has just lost the ability to be rational, but either way, what the _hell_ , how stupid do you have to _be_ to tell the evil killer exactly who to aim for – 

"I've got the circle!" Jax shouts, ripping up a piece of carpet that makes up some of the circle.

There's an almost audible snap of tension. Half of Savage's men stagger in surprise, clearly weakened.

Savage was feeding them power, using the circle and Carter's body and, judging by the _cup full of blood_ , his blood, too. 

What sort of people think drinking human blood from a literal corpse is a good way to get power? Or is _sanitary_ , for that matter?!

"More people are coming!" a helpful ghost shouts at him from its vantage point at the ceiling.

Len glances at Savage. Stabbed a few times, yes, but by Rip, not Kendra, who is still absent, and there's the medium’s blood circle – it really can't be anything else, what with the corpse and all – to consider.

"Mick, get the body!" he calls. "Everyone else, let's go!"

Even Rip doesn't object.

Sara has to be reminded she's in the present, but she does manage to keep from murdering Swiss ninja guy, though she does at least disable him.

Mick looks at the guy’s unconscious corpse, considering.

"No more ghosts," Len warns him, glancing back at where Savage is still out for the count.

"Fine," Mick grumbles, and sweeps out after him.

After lighting the house on fire, of course. 

He _is_ still Mick, after all.

"We've lost the dagger," Sara reports once they get back to the Waverider. "We'd brought it along to get Savage's attention, and the bank guy grabbed it."

"So, we're one corpse richer and one Savage-killing dagger poorer," Len drawls. "Was that the goal?"

"...no," Sara says. "We did stop him from using Carter's corpse any more, though!"

"A corpse he had no access to in the original timeline," Len reminds her.

She winces. "I'm – going to go wash up."

"Gideon, are there any serious alterations of the timeline?" Rip asks. "Particularly from any actions Messiers Snart and Rory may have taken on their unsupervised outing?"

He glares at them. They glare back.

"No, Captain," Gideon reports in her tranquil voice. "No noticeable alterations."

Rip grunts. He'd clearly wants to yell some more, but Gideon has taken the wind out of his sails.

"We should bury Mr. Hall," he says instead. "That will give us all some much-needed closure."

Len blinks at him. "Bury him? In – the past?" he hazards.

"Why not?"

"He might have family he wants to visit him."

"We'll let them know where his headstone is," Rip says dismissively. "We can't spare the time."

Len scowls at the thought of a corpse going without honoring for nearly forty years just because Rip couldn't be bothered to take a short detour. 

"Surely that should be Ms. Saunders' decision?" Stein asks, coming in from the medical bay, closely followed by Ray.

"They were barely even dating," Len points out. "Why should she get a say over his family and friends in the present?"

"No, no," Rip says, looking pleased. "Ms. Saunders will almost certainly want an appropriate burial – a short funeral will not be too much time to spend, I think, honoring our comrade and reminding ourselves of the importance of this mission – "

"Wouldn't a jump to the future for the funeral be just as short?" Len objects. "That way other people could attend."

Rip glares at him, clearly willing him silent. Lewis used to do that, when Len was undercutting his real objective.

"Oh, I get it," Len drawls, his voice going icier. "You ain't really worried about honoring Carter's corpse. You just want us to have a nice bonding moment over our dead – what'd you call 'im – _comrade_ , so that we'll feel committed to getting rid of Savage and saving your family. Or is it saving your family and then getting rid of Savage if it's convenient?"

"How dare you," Rip snaps. "I was the one who came to _you_ – "

"With lies," Len snipes. "Don't forget that."

"I know exactly how much of a threat Savage is – "

"Yeah," Len says. "My question is – if your family got rescued, would you even care?" He arches his eyebrows. " _Did_ you even care, before it got personal?"

Rip goes pale, with rage or with trauma, Len's not sure.

"He can't," Mick says from across the room.

Len glances at him. He's not the only one. 

"He's tried to just save his family and it screwed up," Mick says, still looking at Rip. He was always better at judging people than Len. "Ain't that right? And whatever it was he tried didn't work, so he tried to go after Savage instead. Except that didn't work, either, so he came to us. He needs us. He needs us to fight Savage, to save his family, because he couldn't save them."

"And now Savage knows their names in advance," Len argues, still upset about that, even though he has to concede that the picture Mick is painting is pretty bleak. He can't really say he wouldn't lie and cheat and trick people just the same as Rip if he was in that situation. "Practically gave him a roadmap, so he'd know who he'd be going after."

"Just like Savage knew about Rip - _Gareeb_ , that's what he called you, isn't it?" Sara adds, putting it together. "He knew about you. You tried to go after him before."

"Yes," Rip says, and he sits down heavily. "I did. Back in Egyptian times, before the meteors hit, when he was weakest. I tried to kill him – and I failed."

"And your family?" Ray asks.

"I tried to save them – I kept jumping back a little further in time each time, but no matter what I did, nothing worked, they would always die at the hands of Savage and his men. Every time. Countless times..."

He closes his eyes in pain.

Len presses his lips together. He can see the sympathy on everyone else's faces – even Mick's, although he conceals it – and even though he understands it, he wants no part of it.

He, who just spoke to his mother, and left without warning her of her early death.

Yeah, Len's not in a forgiving mood right now.

"So you lied to us," he says, harsher than he knows he should be. "You lied about our roles in history, then admitted it when we found out about it. You lied about this being authorized, until we found out about that. You didn't tell us about your previous interactions with Savage, until Carter was dead and Kendra injured and we found out about _that_. You didn't even tell us about your family until we called out you. You're treating us like pawns on your chessboard – we only get necessary intel when you feel like giving it to us. That's not acceptable."

Rip flinches.

Len crosses his arms. He has no intention of letting Rip get out of this with a pout and a sad look. In fact, maybe they should be reconsidering continuing on this entire stupid snake-bit mission – maybe it's time to call the whole thing off - 

"We'll stay," Mick says. "But from now on, you tell us everything. Not what you think we need to know, _everything_. We've gotta be partners in this mission, and that means we're either equals, or not at all."

Everyone nods.

Len looks over at Mick. Len knows Mick well enough, and vice versa, to know that that was deliberately timed. Len could have led everyone to abandon mission at that moment, if he'd continued the way he was going. Mick interrupted deliberately. 

Therefore, Mick didn't want to abandon the mission.

Right. Those godforsaken dreams.

Well, stupid snake-bit mission or not, Mick's made a play and Len will back it. That's what partners do.

Equals, or not at all.

"If you think going back to the present will be too much of a burden, we can cremate him," Len says, making what he thinks is the reasonable assumption that Carter isn't Jewish and thus wouldn't mind. "Keep his ashes in storage where Savage can't get to him. And bury 'em when he gets back."

"That would be acceptable," Kendra says from the doorway. She looks sad and weak, still clad in a hospital gown, but healthier. "I don't – I don't feel qualified to judge, for Carter. But he should go back to his family. Carter Hall's family, not just - me."

"Then we're all agreed?" Len asks.

Nods all around.

"Then, Rip – " The man looks tired and worn down, making Len regret a little of his harshness, but not too much. They're on a stupid mission that Len's starting to want off of, and it's this guy's fault, and if that means Len's going to be a bit judgy, so be it. "— what next?"


	30. 29

What's next turns out to be them going to the 1980s to crack the Pentagon, apparently.

Len has already decided that he hates time travel, but heists? 

He _loves_ heists. 

Of course, instead of consulting with Len, his resident expert, Rip comes up with an unnecessarily convoluted plan which involves all of them playing different roles.

"I could just go in and get it myself," Len offers. "I cracked the Pentagon in '09 – it can't possibly be harder thirty years earlier."

"You – " Rip looks flustered. "Of course you did, Mr. Snart."

Sara, Kendra and Ray are having trouble suppressing their smiles. Jax and Stein aren't even bothering. 

"You won't have time to case the joint in advance, boss," Mick reminds him. "Might as well give everyone else the experience."

"Oh, all right," Len says. "Just to share in the fun."

After, when they're all getting ready, Len says, "Ten bucks this blows up."

"Sucker's bet," Mick says. "Of _course_ it'll go wrong. It's way too complicated, and everyone's too unstable, personality-wise; it's really a question as to which _one_ of 'em will screw up. My money's on Kendra, Ray or Sara."

"Then why did you support...?"

"It has to screw up," Mick says with a shrug. "We need 'em to realize that they're better off listening to you."

"Stop trying to build me an army," Len scolds Mick lightly. "I have one; it's dead."

"Maybe I think having some living bodyguards ain't a bad idea..."

"No. Bodyguards."

Mick sniggers at the look on Len's face. “Speaking of bodyguards -" Len glares. "- how you doing on ghosts?” Mick finishes, looking innocent. “Since I’m the only one who came with you –”

“It’d be a lot easier if this bucket of bolts wasn’t ghost-resistant,” Len grumbles. “Don’t worry, I’ll gather a few friendlies on my way into the Pentagon. Gotta be some interesting ghosts there, don’t you think?

The job goes horribly wrong, of course - Kendra, so Mick would've won if Len had been dumb enough to take that bet - but they do get the info they need, so personally Len thinks it turned out fine. 

"Well, that was great," Sara snaps at Rip as she sweeps into the Waverider, looking immensely pissed off. "Maybe we should've let Snart do it – him being the expert and all."

She stalks off. 

Rip follows after her.

Len meets Mick's eyes and manages to come off as expressionless instead of bursting into laughter like he dearly wants to.

Mick: best second-in-command ever. Dead or alive.

Rip somehow manages to placate Sara by putting her in charge of training Kendra, whose bloodthirsty hawk goddess persona is turning out more liability than help. 

Len is just rolling his eyes at the idea (not necessarily a bad one, actually quite smart on Rip's part, but when you've got the bloodthirsty leading the bloodthirsty...) when the entire ship quakes.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

“We’re being tracked and fired upon,” Rip says tersely.

“In Soviet airspace?” Stein exclaims. “How?”

“It’s not the Soviets,” Rip says. 

“I thought this ship was cloaked,” Jax says.

“It is,” Gideon says primly.

“It’s the Stormtroopers Three,” Mick says, striding back onto the bridge from wherever he went off to. Possibly outside the ship.

“Correct, Mr. Rory. It’s them,” Rip says. “They must have followed us when we made the jump from the 70s. But have no concern, I can lose them.”

“Captain, what would you like me to do?” Gideon asks.

“Slow down, drop our cloak, and make as much noise as possible,” Rip announces in a grandiose manner, but he steps up and seems almost to relax. This is clearly his element.

Len shakes his head. Chase sequences in high velocity time ships – definitely _not_ his area of expertise, so he's happy to defer to Rip here. 

Besides, worst case scenario, Mick will come get him before it all blows up and they can eject – Mick can carry Len, Jax and Stein can Firestorm and carry Sara, Kendra has wings, Ray has a suit, and Rip can fall to the ground like a plummeting rock for all Len cares. 

Except then they'd be stuck in the '80s which - no thanks. 

Fine, fine, he'd instruct a nearby ghost to grab Rip before they fell too far. 

“You know what,” he says, shaking his head to clear it. Rip's clearly got this handled. “You have fun losing them.”

He turns on his heel and goes back to where Sara is attempting – without much success – to teach Kendra how to hold a staff for practice.

It's while watching them practice spar that Len notices it for the first time.

He's not entirely sure what _it_ is – something at Kendra's feet, haunting her steps. Definitely a ghost of some sort, but so faint that even Len can't see it. 

Getting stronger, though. 

Len wonders if it's worth exploring, but decides to hold off; if it becomes a problem, he’ll be able to spot it by the time it gets powerful enough to do anything.

Besides, Rip has successfully blasted their pursuers out of the sky (according to an approving-looking Mick, Rip's apparently really good at space battles - not an area of expertise that Len would've expected, but he appreciates talent wherever it may be found) and they've arrived at their destination, which means that his services are needed elsewhere.

"You want _me_ to play wingman to _Ray Palmer_ ," Len says flatly. It’s like Rip Hunter’s dog was killed by good planning, and now he refuses to go anywhere near it.

"Mr. Palmer should be able to bond with Ms. Vostok at the ballet opera without raising undue suspicion," Rip says. "As a fellow scientist and man of means – "

"In _communist Russia_?" Len asks skeptically. It's not that he has anything against Ray - the man's clearly brilliant, if very awkward with people sometimes, and Len doesn't hold something like that against him - but the man's a freaking billionaire. He's so capitalistic that he could star in a remake of Monopoly.

"Well..."

"Whatever," Len cuts him off, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache he's sure is coming. "Let's do it."

After all, if Ray crashes and burns, that just provides an opportunity for Len to step in and win her interest – even if that interest is limited to spiting Ray. 

Len’s flirting skills are a bit rusty, though.

He goes to find Mick.

Mick takes one look at the big, shit-eating grin on his face and starts looking like a hunted animal. “What?” he asks warily. 

Len explains.

“You are _not_ trying out corny pick-up lines on me!”

“Sorry,” Len says. “You’re my husband; you have to keep me satisfied.”

“Food, clothing and sex! Not puns! I looked it up!”

“Yeah, yeah, suck it up. How many times am I going to get this _opera-tunity_?”

“I _hate_ you,” Mick groans.

Len sniggers.

"Mr. Snart, Captain Hunter requests your presence on the bridge," Gideon announces far too soon afterwards. Her mechanical voice sounds rather amused, though.

Len sighs, but stops trying to leave hickies on Mick's neck (not really all that plausible with a ghost, but Len enjoys the effort) and stands up, straightening his clothing. "Keep an eye on things here, will you? Make sure no one dies or blows themselves up or anything?"

Mick grumbles an agreement.

And with that, Len goes to Moscow to see the ballet.

Well.

To lurk creepily outside of the ballet so that Ray can try to pick up a woman. 

Wow. That sounds even more awful than he’d thought it would. 

Hell, if Rip hadn't offered them that babelfish device – tech in the form of a swallowable pill that lets Time Masters cheat the system and communicate in all languages like a native, which Ray had practically leapt for – Ray wouldn't even be able to make this attempt. 

Personally, Len didn't really like the idea of ingesting some tech that was stuck in him for who-knows-how-long, especially tech he didn't understand and didn't have time to learn inside and out. Who knows what the tech can do, especially tech controlled by a _ship_ , that he wouldn't be able to figure out in advance? Len's very much a technology _outside_ the body sorta guy, thank you very much.

Len's subsequent not-so-polite declining of the babelfish had led to a brief argument, resolved only by Rip eventually giving in with bad grace and giving him a so called "companion's" babelfish, a version that would only last a few hours before being destroyed in its entirety, designed for people who were helping out Time Masters but whom the Time Masters had no intention of permitting back into the timeline with a mastery of all languages.

Hell, the only reason Len had agreed (with equally bad grace) to take that version was because there was no way his prison-learned Russian was good enough to pass as anything other than an unusually obvious American spy. 

Rip (and Ray) thought Len was an idiot for insisting, but Len likes to know what's going in his belly, thanks. He doesn't think that it's all that unusual a desire, all things considered. 

"You do know how to do this, right?" Len asks Ray as they come up on the opera house. "When the individual in question doesn't know you as Ray Palmer, billionaire inventor?"

"Of course," Ray says, and brushes invisible dirt off his shoulders. "You remember how you told me to follow your lead when it came to theft? Well, now it's your turn to learn from the master."

This, Len decides, is going to be a disaster. A _hilarious_ disaster.

Ray strides off to go mingle in the crowd. 

Len, meanwhile, has other matters to concern himself with.

Which is to say: ghosts. 

Russian ghosts. 

"We have not had one of you in Russia for a long time, _Grazhdanin_ Snart," a burly ghost with long mustaches and an old-fashioned outfit says. "A very long time." 

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Len asks.

"Good," the ghost says. "Very good. Your kind has been missed."

"Maybe you should've considered fewer pogroms..."

"How were we to know?" the ghost grumbles. "No one ever said!"

"I would think fewer pogroms is enough reason _by itself_..."

"I told you, Grigori," another ghost says; a woman, this time, dressed in a grey peacoat and leaning on a ghostly rifle. She’s powerful – not Mick levels, but definitely a full on manifestation entirely in her own right. Len wouldn’t be surprised if people regularly told stories of a haunting in this area. "I did tell you." 

"You don't have to rub it in, Svetlana,” the male ghost, Grigori, complaints. He’s not too shabby, either – not as powerful as Svetlana, for sure, but old, very old. 

"Surely some are left?" Len asks.

"Oh, sure, sure," Svetlana says with a shrug. "But Russia is a large country, you know..."

Len snorts. "Right. Care to do me a favor?"

"Of course," she says. "You need only ask, _Grazhdanin_ Snart."

"Keep an eye on my colleagues for me. Especially Mick; I want to know if he does anything foolish while I'm gone. He'll be able to see you; he's the ghost on the futuristic ship that repels ghosts."

Svetlana snaps a salute and disappears.

"Your concerns should be closer than your distant ship," Grigori observes. "Your young pup is stumbling down a hole."

Len turns just in time to see Ray blow his first opportunity with Vostok – she's uninterested, that much is plain – and then follow it up with a profoundly creepy statement with far too much information about her, turning that disinterest into fear and anger. 

Great.

Learn from the master indeed.

"A master has now become the apprentice," Len mutters to himself, because the moment just seems appropriate for it, and then he moves in for the kill.

"Sorry," he says to Vostok with patent insincerity, glaring at Ray. "Is this man bothering you?"

"Don't trouble yourself," Vostok replies, also glaring at Ray and noting with approval his own disapproval of Ray's boorishness. "I'm not a damsel in distress."

That small interaction is enough to give Len a basic read on Vostok: a strong woman scientist who would probably describe herself in exactly those terms in 1986, i.e., during the decline of second-wave feminism from its prior heights. Doesn't want to be condescended to. Doesn't want to be protected.

Wants to do the chasing, not to be chased. 

"Good," Len drawls, turning to look at her as if only now noticing her presence. "Because I'm no white knight."

He cuts his eyes away, feigning disinterest; after having declared himself as unwilling to act for mere chivalry, she is intrigued despite herself, curious – even if only mildly – as to his motives. 

She opens her mouth to say something.

The clock in his head hits zero. 

A bell rings distantly from inside the building.

He's always had a great sense of timing.

"Seems intermission is over," she says, reluctant to go before she's figured him out.

"Of course," Len nods. "You wouldn't want to miss Queen Nisia dancing naked with the nymphs."

Her eyes narrow a little at his tone of indifference. With his use of 'you', he's signified that he's not here for the ballet, though he clearly knows about it. He assisted her, but disclaimed any noble intentions. His clothing is fine, he appears unafraid –

A mystery.

Len meets Vostok's eyes and lets the slightest hint of a smirk touch his lips. 

She makes a decision.

"My favorite part of the ballet," she replies. "But I've seen it so many times. Perhaps you wouldn't mind walking me home instead."

Len lets a bit more of the smirk out, inclines his head in a slight nod, and offers her his arm.

Vostok slides her arm through his. "Perhaps another time," she tells an offended-looking Ray with patent insincerity. 

"Perhaps not," Len murmurs, and sweeps her away.

Their conversation is an exercise in cut-and-thrust quips, where Len drops hints that he's not who he appears to be and she pretends to be flirting with him to figure out if he's KGB, American, or just a con man.

It's rather fun, actually. Just when she starts settling on the notion that he's an American spy – the translator is good but apparently defeated by the use of the word 'ain't' – an actual KGB ghost, hovering nearby, suggests a catchphrase that, when Len echoes it, has her questioning it all over again.

Watching Ray follow them through the cold evening with an expression on his face not unlike having bit into a bitter lemon is just a perk.

Len drops her off with a smirk and a quip and, at her insistence, a kiss.

Then he returns to Ray.

"I think I've got frostbite in some not-so-fun places from waiting out here," Ray tells him, pouting a little childishly. 

It's not an attractive look on a man Len's age. 

"The world mourns your loss," Len drawls.

Ray gives him a look of such scathing nature that Len can't help but smile a big. "Did she tell what kind of weapon Savage was building?"

Len gives Ray an incredulous look. "Oddly enough, that didn't come up," he says. When would it have, in between the discussions of the ballet or the implications of espionage? "Such a romantic evening, I didn't want to spoil the mood."

_Unlike you_ , he mentally adds, giving Ray a pointed look. 

"So other than a steamy good night kiss – "

If that's what Ray considers steamy, Len pities him.

"— and a possible case of hypothermia, we've got nothing," Ray concludes.

"I wouldn't say that," Len drawls, pulling out Vostok's security badge of his left pocket. "Valentina's pass for a place called Luskavic Labs. Bet the weapon she's working on for Savage will be there."

Ray blinks, looks impressed for half a second, then shrugs. "Guess I should just be happy you didn't swipe her wallet."

Len pulls said wallet out of his other pocket. Honestly, it's like Ray thinks Len is entirely incapable of multitasking.

"You're such a kleptomaniac," Ray snaps, snatching the security badge and stalking away.

"Like that is a bad thing," a nearby ghost snorts. "Skills are good; you should take pride in them."

"Thanks," Len says dryly, starting to trail after Ray. "Can one of you keep an eye on the lovely Miss Vostok? I'd like a heads up as to whether she's going to go to sleep or if she's planning on going back to work."

"I can do that," one ghost says.

"No, I!" another exclaims.

"Both of you," Len says firmly. "One of you stay with her, one of you come give me an update."

"Speaking of update, _Grazhdanin_ Snart," a familiar voice says from over his shoulder, sounding somewhat apologetic. It's Svetlana, the ghost from earlier, with the rifle. " _Grazhdanin_ Rory has an update for you."

Len turns to look at her, frowning. 

"He says to tell you that Hunter's friends offered to let him return to their organization unpunished if he returned us to our timeline, and he's thinking about it, even though _Grazhdanin_ Rory warned him that it's an ambush."

"And how exactly would Citizen Rory know about this?"

"He served as _Grazhdanin_ Hunter's bodyguard during the initial meeting – "

Len scowls. "Against Time Masters? I'm going to kill him more dead than he already is."

He heads back to the ship, Svetlana drifting curiously behind him.

Mick is looking irritable. 

"You _bodyguard_ now?" Len asks.

"Don't want to hear it," Mick says snippily. "I just spent the last fifteen minutes trying to use small words to explain to Hunter how this is an ambush and how his old bosses aren't gonna just fix up all of his mistakes and take him back with open arms."

"He has been," Jax confirms. "Sara's still at it with Hunter now." He nods at the closed door to Hunter's office now, through which angry words are still faintly audible. "He's trying to say it's for our benefit that he's considering it."

Len groans. "And his wife and kid?"

"He's being noble about it," Stein says, his tone similarly displeased. "Apparently the fact that Captain Hunter misled us and now feels guilty about it invalidates any statements he made regarding the importance of changing history to prevent the rise of Savage's empire. Add to that the fact that Mr. Hall died, and Captain Hunter is apparently willing to sell our mission out in order to ensure no more deaths fall on his conscience."

"We're not gonna let that happen, right, boss?" Jax asks Len.

Len glances sidelong at Mick, who's looking extremely grumpy and slightly alarmed at the idea. 

"No," Len says with a sigh. Apparently they're not getting out of this one so easily. "Worst case scenario, we bash Rip over the head, shove him in a closet, and carry on ourselves.” He pauses for a second. “That was speaking _theoretically_ , you hear me, Gideon?"

"I hear you, Mr. Snart," Gideon replies, tranquil and creepily ever-present as ever. "However, I doubt that will be necessary. Captain Hunter is wholly committed to this course of action."

"Then why the equivocating?" Stein asks with a frown.

"He's testing us to see if _we're_ committed," Jax says, scowling. "And it's starting to get real old. I know he's got trust issues, what with his old buddies being assholes, but _seriously_... Gideon, you got any more how to guides for the ship? I wanna be able to pilot if we need to drag him kicking and screaming through time to do what we gotta do to save his family and the world. Assuming that's good with you, of course; I've seen way too many space movies to disagree with the ship on – anything."

"Do not be concerned, Mr. Jackson," Gideon assures him. "Although my loyalty lies primarily with Captain Hunter as a result of our old friendship, I can and have disagreed with him in the past. In the present instance, I believe you are correct that Master Druce is intending him nothing but harm – and that there will be no harm in showing you how to pilot."

"Great," Jax says. "Lead the way. Grey – "

"I'll come along as well," Stein says. "I've always wanted to be a starship pilot. But what shall we do about this Druce fellow?"

"Counter-ambush?" Len suggests. "I'll bring it up to Rip. And Gideon – we appreciate it."

"My pleasure, Mr. Snart. Mr. Jackson, Mr. Stein, this way."

Len looks at Mick when they're gone, a silent question.

"I took a nap," Mick says, rubbing his forehead. "Had the dream again. The time puppies were desperate to get me to the goal, and I kept turning away for stupid side quests, and they started ripping into me in their desperation to get me there..."

"Crap," Len says, his mild annoyance vanishing. "So what you're saying is that it's _our_ job to keep this mission on the right track? Except we don't know what the right track is?"

"More or less," Mick sighs. "Only that letting Rip give in and give up ain't it."

"Right. So let's keep that from happening."

Len still doesn't like how Mick is being tortured with these dreams, but he doesn't know what to _do_ about it. He has no power over a dead man's dreams. Most of the time, the time puppies are being nice about it – Mick insists that they don't realize that they hurt him – but it doesn't matter; if Len ever figures out that someone is behind this, he's going to kill them.

Turns out Rip is all in for the idea of a counter-ambush, and if Len reads him right, he was actually waiting for someone to suggest it because he wanted to ensure their full and voluntarily participation. Len's begrudgingly impressed, just a bit: as personnel management goes, it's not a bad approach. But then again, Rip isn't the only one with trust issues. 

Rip is, of course, the only possible patsy for the inevitable ambush, since he's the one Druce is expecting, but he tries to offer a few suggestions as to their approach on ambushing (unneeded, but Len's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt given his space battle prowess) and makes a few wistful comments about how he never thought Druce would ever do something like this.

Druce does, in face, do something exactly like this.

The Stormtroopers Three step out from the shadows behind him. 

Druce links his hands together behind his back. "I'm so sorry it had to turn out this way, old friend, but the council cannot risk keeping you alive."

"Such a shame, _old friend_ ," Rip says, playing it off all casual-like. "I won't be able to tell my friends they were right. They were convinced you planned to kill me."

"Wise friends, perhaps," Druce says, ostentatiously looking around. "But they appear to have abandoned you, my friend. Not that it matters. They will be tracked down and eliminated."

"I'm afraid that doesn't work for us," Rip says.

Druce hesitates. "Us?"

"Gotta love a good entrance line," Sara says, and leaps out of where she's perched in the tree above them.

Len grins and swings into action with his cold gun from the left. Mick comes in from the right.

And just beyond them, Jax and Stein turn to each other and Firestorm shoots into the sky, flanked by Kendra on one side and Ray on the other.

"Anything I can do to help?" Svetlana asks, appearing behind Len. She's pretty far from her original haunting ground - she must be even stronger than Len had originally thought. 

"Keep an eye on Druce, if you can," Len instructs. That guy's clearly trouble – and Len would be very interested to know what exactly was so threatening that they think letting _Savage_ take over the world is a better option. "We'll be wanting to question him about Savage."

"Savage?"

"Vandal Savage. Time Masters support him, I wanna know why." He glances at her. “You probably don’t need it, but you can have as much power from me as you’d like, chasing that down.”

Svetlana nods and snaps another salute, shooting Len a grin as she does. "This is the most fun I've had since I flew with the 588."

Len grins. Not bad, having a Night Witch on your side. Not that he thinks they need the help –

“Firestorm’s down!” Mick shouts.

Shit. 

Len takes half a second to pull a few ghosts and send them out to help with the battle before dashing towards Mick's voice, but by the time he gets there Stein is already staggering out of the woods. “Jefferson,” he gasps. “We were separated by the blast – I don’t know where he fell –”

“He’s injured,” Mick says, appearing by Len’s side. “This way –”

Len follows Mick to Jax, who’s managed to get back onto his feet but is staggering, his hand clamped onto his midsection.

“ _Shit_ ,” Len says. “Okay, back to the ship.”

“But the Stormtroopers –” Jax starts.

“I’ve got some ghosts on ‘em,” Len says firmly, stepping forward and catching Jax under the arm. “You, back to the ship, now. I ain’t telling Jenna why I brought you back a ghost. Mick, tell the others we're retreating."

"On it, boss."

They meet back at the ship. "They following us?" Mick asks, looking back at the ghosts that have floated after them from the fight in the forest.

"No, Mr. Rory," Rip says briskly, assuming the question was aimed at him. "We have stood them off for the time being; they will not follow us now, but wait for a more opportune moment."

"Time Master tradition, huh?" Len says, handing Jax over to Stein to take to the med bay. 

"Indeed," Rip replies, missing the sarcasm. "I didn't get a moment to ask you this earlier, but I trust everything went according to plan at the Bolshoi?"

"Swiped Vostok's badge," Len replies with a shrug. 

"Excellent."

"We gonna have a plan this time?" Len asks pointedly.

"Uh, you know what, I'm going to continue training with Sara," Kendra says, slipping out the back part of the room, following an equally-quickly-retreating Sara. 

Something follows her, flickering at her heels. 

"I assure you, the plan is most straightforward," Rip says, frowning at Len. His eyes flicker around the room, noticing that only Ray remains to stand with him against Len and Mick's joined forces. And Ray is standing next to Mick. "We will use Vostok's credentials to enter the lab and find out what she is building on behalf of Savage."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Ray says. "Professor Stein and I can do it."

Len snorts.

"With Snart's help to get in, of course," Ray adds, then grins at Len like they have a shared joke. "You've got to admit it, Snart - physics? We're _definitely_ the experts here."

Len presses his lips together. It's not the plan he objects to - Ray has a point about expertise - and it's not like it's anything different from what he'd do, but...

"Jax is injured," he says. "Stein – "

"Stein can come without him," Ray says firmly. "This isn't a job for Firestorm; it's a job for scientists."

"Fine," Len says, despite feeling an inexplicable sense of unease. "But Mick's coming with us, too."


	31. 30

The whole thing goes wrong almost immediately. 

Ray doesn't listen from the start. Stein listens, but gets easily distracted by interesting things.

Len –

"I don't like this place," Len hisses. 

"Boss, you okay?" Mick asks, concern clear in his voice. "You're more skittish than an alley cat being invited in for a bath." 

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm _fine_."

"Okay," Mick says, clearly not believing him. "And you remember what your ma said about not overdoing it about the ghost armies, right?"

"Sure I do. What's your point?"

Mick glances over his shoulder.

Len looks back.

At least three dozen ghosts look back.

"That's not...quite...an army," Len says weakly. He hadn't noticed them gathering up.

"As I said," Mick says. "You're skittish. They wanna help."

"Savage is up to something in there," Len says. "And I don't like it."

"Alexa?" Mick asks. "Feeling like the job's gonna go off?"

"Something like that. Not quite. I don't know, just _something_." 

But without a solid instinct that it's going to go bad or a reason not to, there's nothing for it but to proceed. They go in, Ray and Stein leading, Len and Mick trailing with their too-small-to-call-it-an-army-really squad of ghosts behind them. Rip is monitoring them from the comms.

Finding Vostok's lab is almost too easy.

"What's she working on?" Ray asks, looking around. 

"Me," Stein says blankly. His eyes have fixated on a small chamber with a round, glowing ball in the center. 

"How's that?" Rip asks, his voice crackling through the comms.

"No, it's – it's _me_. She's trying to recreate Firestorm. Savage saw us in the past – it's clear that he's trying to even the odds against our team – Leonard, this _cannot_ be permitted to happen. I need to get the core. We cannot allow someone like Savage to get ahold of the matrix."

"No, guess not," Len says. He'd rather not even imagine it. "What do you need?"

"We must remove the core in the lab – if only the power were cut, I could get to it myself and absorb the energies –"

"That’ll kill you!" Ray protests. "Even if the electricity was cut, the power still inside the core -"

"It'd kill anyone but Firestorm," Stein says. 

"Jax isn't here," Len reminds him. 

"I can do it alone," Stein says firmly. "The risk is much reduced, though, if the power to the core is shut down remotely."

Len nods a little; he doesn't know Stein as well as he knows Jax, of course, but he's had some time to get to know the guy. He's a bit crotchety, but he's undeniably a scientific genius, and if he says he can do it, he can probably do it.

Doesn't mean Len's sending him alone, of course. 

Len glances at Mick, who nods in agreement. "Go," Len tells Stein. "Ray and I will cut the power so that you can get in."

Stein goes, Mick following him.

"You'd better be right about this," Ray says to Len, voice low. "If Stein gets hurt – "

"He's an adult who can make his own decisions," Len points out. It's not like he _sent_ him to do it; he just agreed to back Stein's play.

Ray still looks a bit disgruntled about it. "He defers to you, though," he says, sounding frustrated and puzzled. "He listens to you, he trusts you, he respects you -"

Len abruptly understands that this is the real problem; this is what's been behind Ray's contrarianism and desperate attempts to prove himself. He wants respect and he doesn’t know how to get it when he's with scientific geniuses of his own caliber and heroes of an entirely different level from him. 

"Why is that?" Ray continues, look at Len like his answer could solve not just his immediate dilemma, but everything he's been worrying over in his mind for probably years. "You're not a hero. You're a _villain_. And yet, he ignores my suggestions, but asks _you_ for permission!"

"We've worked together before," Len tells Ray. He feels a bit bad for him - it's not easy to feel like the awkward one out, the last one picked every time - but only a bit: Ray's problems largely stem from his belief that his intelligence and good-heartedness entitle him to some respect, if not the actual affection he craves, and that's mostly just ego. "I may be a thief and a villain, but I love my city same as anyone else. Working together like that builds trust. He knows what he's good at - science - and he knows what I'm good at - breaking into places and taking 'em - and he knows when to ask for my advice. That's all."

"But – "

"You don't get respect just because you say one day that you're a hero," Len says. "You get it because people know they can rely on you. Stein'll get around to respecting you if you do your part, do it well, and keep doing it well. He _won't_ if you keep on showing off like someone more interested in looking like a hero than being one."

"Hey! That's uncalled for. I want to help people – " Ray starts.

"You forget I heard you, earlier," Len says dryly. "You want to be remembered. If you could save a hundred lives but you'd die forgotten and no one'd ever thank you, would you?"

Ray frowns. 

“Something to think about,” Len tells him. Ray means well, he can tell, but he’s on unsure grounds, philosophically. He’s rich, he’s white, he’s a man, he’s a genius – he’s probably never had something he wanted not come into his hands right away, and being a hero, a real hero, is a lot trickier than it looks, if you want to be more than just a vigilante. It's a mark of good character that he's decided to try, that he's even decided that he wants to put his life's work towards helping others, but Len's not going to hold Ray's hand while he figures out what his moral foundations are.

He's already spent far too much of his time explaining things like the Geneva Convention and basic human rights to Team Flash, and they at least had the excuse of being misled by their first mentor.

Also, Len is a _supervillain_. The fact that his first two apprentice Rogues ended up being heroes is a _coincidence_ , not a sign that he runs a baby hero babysitting club, damnit. 

"Power controls are this way," a ghost volunteers.

Len nods, happy to cut off that line of thought before he digs the hole he's in any deeper. "Let's go. Follow me."

Ray follows him. "Oh, yes," he says when he sees the small room. "This is the right place. How'd you know where it was?"

Len rolls his eyes. "Just shut down the core so Stein can grab the core and we can go."

Ray sits and starts working on it. 

Len retreats to the window. "I want a full perimeter sweep," he murmurs. "No surprises."

"On it, boss." The ghosts scatter. 

"Huh," Ray says.

Len turns at once. "What's gone wrong?"

"The power isn't going to the core anymore," Ray says. "Well, it is, it's just not exclusively going there."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a circuit," Ray says, jabbing at the keyboard. "Extraordinarily large, extraordinarily inefficient – it goes all the way around the complex."

Len has a sinking feeling. "A circuit," he says slowly. "You mean like – a circle?"

"Yeah, just like a circle," Ray replies, then looks up at Len with a frown. "Why do you ask?"

"More desirable my ass," Len hisses, thinking back to what his mom said and angry that he hadn't seen it before. It hadn't been Firestorm that had caught Savage's attention that night in 1975, after all. It’d been Len. "This is a _trap_. Let's go."

"But Stein – "

"How long do you need to cut the power for him?" 

"At least a few more minutes," Ray says. "But we have another problem – Valentina just entered the compound." He nods towards a security camera. "She's heading for the core containment where Stein is; if we don't stop her before she gets there, she'll die."

"We need to get out of here," Len snaps. "Or else there won't be anybody left to oppose Savage."

"I can handle the core," Ray says. "Just tell Valentina to get out of here, okay? It's the least you can do on your way out." He looks over at her. "If not, maybe I should – "

Len grits his teeth. "I'll go warn her. You keep focused on making sure Stein doesn't die."

He heads over to Vostok. 

He's two-thirds of the way there when he realizes that his ghosts should've alerted him to her presence. They were running a perimeter check; how could they miss..?

"What are you doing here?" Vostok says, seeing him. 

Too late now.

"Believe me, I'm asking myself the same question," Len replies. The bad feeling is getting stronger. 

"You stole my keys," she says.

"And your wallet," Len returns snidely. "But it was nothing personal."

"You – what is that man doing?" she says, looking over his shoulder. "He has no idea what that core is capable of – "

"Keep off," Len says, moving to block her path. "Maybe you ought to tell me what you think _you're_ doing here."

"This is my lab," she snaps. "And you, you used me – you work for the American government, don't you?"

"Wanted by 'em," Len says. "Close enough. Now get your ass out of here before the jaws of this nuclear-powered trap snap shut." He turns to go – he promised Ray he'd warn the woman, not that he’d escort her out. 

She sneers. "If your man in the core containment unit can deactivate the core, then the trap has already worked."

Len shuts his eyes in annoyance as he feels the cold muzzle of a gun press against the back of his head. 

Of course. 

Goddamn Ray Palmer and his goddamn well-meaning chivalry. 

"Tell me," he drawls in his most irritating voice, his eyes darting around the surprisingly empty walkway. No ghosts coming to his defense despite his increased stress levels – something is definitely wrong. "What's a pretty little thing like you messing with a big ol' bad guy like Vandal Savage for?"

He can _hear_ her teeth grit together in annoyance. "It is, I suppose, sweet of you to think of me as a damsel in distress, but I assure you, you are the one that needs rescuing."

"Hardly," Len scoffs. "You shoot me, you don't get what you want."

"What I _want_ is a necromancer's power," she says. "Only a man protected by the dead could contain the full fire of a splitting atom. And I do not need you for that. No, all I need is your partner. The one with big brown eyes."

Mick? But Mick's eyes are blue, not -

No.

She means _Ray_.

"Turn the core online," she calls to Ray. "This instant, or your friend here gets a bullet in the head."

Empty threat, if what she and Savage are after is Len. Of course, if she doesn’t _know_ it’s Len…

"Don't," Len says when Ray looks up, eyes wide and afraid. "She's not letting me go either way."

"That may be true," Vostok says. "But you are risking his life."

"Ray – " Len starts. "Don't you _dare_ – "

"I'm sorry," Ray says, and turns it back on. Len grits his teeth and glares at him.

"Your friend should have listened to you," Vostok says, the gun not moving from the back of Len's head even as she smirks in Ray's direction. "At least you have the satisfaction of being right, for the short minutes before you die."

He was right. She doesn't know it's him. She thinks _Stein_ is the one she's after. 

Len snorts. That gets her attention focused back on him. "You really have no idea what you're on about," he says. "Savage is pulling all your strings like a puppet."

The gun grinds into the base of his skull. "Your attempts to preserve your sorry life by implying you have knowledge will not work."

"Oh, it's not an implication," Len says, barking out a short laugh. "How'd you stop the ghosts?"

"The electric circuit does it. When the core is destabilized, it draws spirits in, and when the core is reinstated, spirits are then trapped within the lower circle – but it doesn't matter. How do you know about spirits? Your team knows about necromancy?"

"Tell me, Valentina," Len says, putting all his disdain into her given name. "Savage do all the math for you, too, or just the thinking?"

"You _dare_ – "

He spins abruptly and punches her in the face.

She wasn't expecting that. Not from a chivalrous hero type, anyway.

Well, he _warned_ her that he was no white knight. 

"A real scientist gets all the facts," Len taunts her even as he jumps over her head to get out of there. He hears footsteps – guards coming. He goes over the railing instead of heading for the exit.

If Vostok is right, Mick and the other ghosts are trapped down there with Stein.

"Mr. Snart!" Rip's voice comes through the comms. "You must ensure that the core doesn't fall into Miss Vostok's hands!"

Len ignores him, heading for the core containment unit. He sees them: Mick has his back to the door, gun out and firing at oncoming guards; the other ghosts are swirling inside the containment unit, trapped, panicked, all because they followed Len, trying to help. 

Damnit, _no_. 

Stein's inside the containment unit, too, the core in his hands. He's shaking and weak – he managed to drain the core of energy, but it cost him. He's putting it into some sort of small black briefcase.

"Mick!" Len shouts. Mick glances his way, continuing to fire. 

"The core, Mr. Snart!" Rip's voice echoes through the comms.

"I need _reinforcements_ , Rip, not advice," Len snaps back. "Mick and Stein are pinned down in the containment unit; Ray's up in the command tower – " A quick glance confirms that Vostok recovered her gun and is pointing it at him. "— and he's not doing great, either."

"If Savage and Miss Vostok get that core to work, there won't be a point," Rip returns. "We _must_ get that core -"

"Here!" Mick shouts, and throws the black briefcase. 

Len drops his gun and catches it, then he snatches his gun back up. "Rip, I've got the core! Now send backup!"

"I'm afraid our only option is retreat," Rip says.

"What about my partner?" Len roars.

"Mr. Rory will have to fend for himself," Rip says. "Remember the mission – if we permit you and that core to be caught, your partner will not be the only one that dies."

"Mick!" Len shouts again, ignoring Rip, willing Mick to his side –

Mick looks up at him and shakes his head, just a little. He can't go. He's as trapped as the other ghosts, he's just putting on a better show of it.

Len can't leave him. "Mick!"

"Go!" Mick shouts back. "Get the hell out of here!"

Len grits his teeth.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Go _now_!"

"Mr. Snart – "

Len's going to murder Rip. He'll deal with his ghost, even; he doesn't care right now.

But Mick told him to go, and so Len will go. 

And he's going to hate every damn minute of it.

Len turns and runs, core in one hand and gun in the other. He sees the guards ambush Mick in force, pushing him against the wall, others pulling open the door and yanking Stein out of the containment unit; he sees Vostok walking out with a gun trained on Ray. Her nose is bleeding quite badly, but she's smiling.

The door to the containment unit opening means that the ghosts can escape that room, but they hit an invisible barrier when they try to flee the building. 

They're trapped.

Len curses under his breath and runs.

"Where the hell was my backup?" he demands the second he gets onto the Waverider. 

Sara and Kendra come out of the back room, looking confused. They weren't even _consulted_. 

"Half the team is gone," Len says, and he drops the briefcase with the core to better aim his gun at Rip. "Because of you."

"Rip," Sara says. "Is that true?"

"Why didn't you tell us they were going out?" Kendra demands.

"Because if I'd sent the other half of the team to save them, you would all have been captured too," Rip says, hands up in a calming manner. "And then where would we be? Savage would have both halves of Firestorm, a dead Kendra – everything he wants. It would end our mission and very likely the world."

"That's bullshit," Len says.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Snart," Rip scoffs. "You would have made the same calculation."

"How about this for a calculation?" Len returns, his voice cold. "Kendra flies in with Jax from the ceiling, dropping him down near Stein. Firestorm merges and fights off the guards with Mick's help; Kendra dive-bombs Vostok, distracting her, and gets Ray his suit, helping him escape. Meanwhile, Sara disables the electric circuits around the borders of the place, and then I kill the rest of 'em."

"You overestimate your abilities."

Len thinks of his ghostly armies, always hovering just out of reach. "I really don't," he says. "Savage wasn't even _there_ , you selfish bastard. He wouldn't have let anyone else kill Kendra. We would've had an advantage – especially if we used the weapons on the Waverider to blow a hole in the ceiling and use our flying types to get us a quick exit that way. All well before Savage could be alerted and make his way over."

Rip looks surprised. "I don't think that would work – "

"You wouldn't," Len says bitterly, thinking of Mick, trapped somewhere for the first time in over half a century. Thinking of his ghosts. "You hung us out to dry the first chance you had."

"You may not think much of me, but I assure you, you are my team," Rip says stiffly. "I fully intend to launch a rescue attempt."

"If you'd had any confidence in our abilities, we wouldn't need a rescue," Len starts, but then stops. "This isn't helping. Next time I call for backup, you send me goddamn backup."

"No kidding," Sara says. She's pissed, too. "You had Kendra and I shoved in the back somewhere safe instead of using us to our full capacity and it blew up in your face. You didn't even _let_ us suggest alternatives; you just decided you knew what was best."

"We have brains, you know," Jax says bitterly from the door. He's still weak. "We're not just skillsets."

"I will consult you more in the future, if that's what you want, but the final decision is still mine as Captain," Rip says firmly. 

"Well, _Captain_ , you ain't been doing a real good job so far," Len growls. 

"Our next mission," Rip says, ignoring Len, "is to get our compatriots back from Vostok."

"Who says they're not already dead?" Sara asks.

"Vostok needs Professor Stein alive."

"What about Ray?" Kendra asks. "Or Mick?"

"They'll be kept alive too, as leverage. Savage is clearly attempting to create his own Firestorm."

Len is speechless. _That's_ what Rip got out of this whole mess? Savage isn't after Firestorm – he's after _Len_. The circuit makes that clear: Len and his curse and his armies of the dead. It's only that he mistakenly thought that Firestorm was one of Len's ghosts that led to this trap. That's why Vostok thought that Stein had to be the necromancer - she thought he was the one controlling the ghost on fire.

But Rip's right about one thing: the others will only be kept alive as long as Savage thinks they represent good bait.

"The good news is that it will take some time to break through Stein's defenses," Rip is saying. "The bad news is that our compatriots are being held in an impenetrable Soviet gulag."

"I want plans," Len says immediately.

"First, Mr. Jackson should return to the med lab," Rip instructs. "He hasn't finished his course of treatment."

"But – "

"I'll take him back," Len tells Rip. "But when I get back, I want blueprints and time to work on a plan – _not_ to get told what the plan is. You get me?"

"I understand your concern – "

"I'll keep an eye on him," Sara interrupts. 

"I'm fine," Jax says mutinously as Len escorts him back to the med bay.

"What you are is our best gauge of how Stein is doing," Len tells him. "Ronnie's back home reporting on how you two are doing; you should be able to tell us how Stein is doing. So getting you healthy and focused on that is priority one right now."

"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jax asks, scowl fading into a confused frown. "You're more worried than you should be – can't you just have Mick come back and tell us how Stein is doing if you need to?"

"No."

"No you won't or no you can't?" Jax asks. He was always a smart one.

"Can't," Len says, voice clipped. "They thought Stein was me; the whole thing was designed to trap ghosts. The gulag they've moved them to would be the same, an electric circuit going through the whole place. None of them can leave."

"Shit. So when we go rescue them – "

"We're going to have to break the circle and free all of them," Len confirms. "Or else Mick will be trapped there forever." 

Or until Savage figures out a way to use him, which is infinitely worse.

" _Shit_ ," Jax says, and picks up his pace. "I've been slacking on my mental connection practice, but I'll get right on it. I don't care if I have to carve a message into my arm to get to him."

"Consider that a back-up plan," Len says. "Get healthy first."

With Jax safely back in the med bay, Len returns to the bridge.

"We have an idea on how to get an in," Sara says, coming to Len's side. "It's a Russian prison – the people who will best know the ins and outs would be the Bratva."

"Mobsters," Len says, unable to keep the disdain entirely out of his voice. He hates the Families; he can't imagine the Russian version will be any better. "Fine. Let's do this."

He doesn't know what Savage will do with Mick, and every minute of delay is another minute of Mick trapped. Possibly hurt. Possibly –

No.

Visions of Carter's horror-struck ghost dance in his eyes, but Len can't afford to think about that. He needs to do this properly, calm and collected, in control of himself. 

He's going to free Mick the way Mick freed Len. 

There's no other way this is going to end. Len refuses to even think about the possibility of failure.

"Bratva," Rip says. "We can likely find their leadership at their preferred bathhouse." He nods and types something into the computer console. "Gideon, take us to these coordinates. Keep the cloak and shield up at full strength."

"Will do, Captain."

"Mr. Snart and I will proceed first," Rip announces. "We will purchase entrance and then open a window for Sara to come in and assist us in subduing whomever we need."

The plan isn't subtle, but then again, they're not really concerned with that right now.

Len nods his agreement with the plan.

Getting entrance isn't a problem: even the cash-indifferent gatekeepers of the late Soviet era are willing to do a lot for a Gideon-printed diamond.

Once inside, though, Len discovers an aspect of this job that he hadn't thought through.

He and Rip are alone together.

"Why do we need to get undressed?" Len asks, quirking an unimpressed eyebrow at Rip. 

"Because, Mr. Snart, we are _attempting_ to not be obvious while we determine which individual is most likely to be useful to us."

Len has never enjoyed dressing up for jobs, and dressing down in a robe is even less enjoyable. 

"You don't need to go into the booth to change," Rip says, stripping down with the blithe disregard of a man who has always had access to a machine to heal away his scars. "You know, Mr. Snart, you're surprisingly modest for someone who has spent much of his life in penitentiaries –"

"Are you under the mistaken impression that we're friends?" Len has to ask. "Because we're not."

That sets Rip back a moment. "Well, we are compatriots in a grand mission, Mr. Snart," he finally says. "Surely we can reach some sort of – "

"The fact that my partner is currently absent doesn't mean I'm in the market for a new one," Len says cuttingly, walking out of the dressing room in the most voluminous robe he could find. He's not a big fan of showing skin. 

Rip looks put out, but, credit to him, rallies well and says, "The bathhouse itself is downstairs."

Len follows him down the stairs and –

Wow, that's a _lot_ of dead people.

It's not that Len wasn't expecting some – it's a Bratva stronghold, after all, and no one collects ghosts faster than the murderous Families – but, still, that's a _lot_.

They all turn to look at him.

It abruptly becomes very clear to Len that these are _not_ friendly ghosts.

"Hi," Len says weakly, trying to think about how long it's been since he's given a friendly ghost besides Mick some power. How long it's been since he's been in this time period – he's been so focused on rescuing Mick, he'd forgotten about the ever-existing threat of the unquiet dead, and now the _best_ case scenario is that he's going to have an attack right now in front of Rip.

The unquiet dead are advancing.

The worst case scenario is, of course, that he'll die before ever having rescued Mick.

That's _not_ an acceptable scenario.

Len straightens his back and glares death at the unquiet dead. "Don't you even _think_ about it."

They hesitate.

That…may be the first time in Len's life that's ever actually worked.

"Mr. Snart?" Rip murmurs. 

"I've got it handled," Len lies. He totally does not have it handled. "Be prepared for a quick exit if necessary – we might need access to Gideon's medbay sooner rather than later."

"Understood," Rip says.

The unquiet dead are advancing again.

Len braces himself. He'll take down as many of them as he can, if they attack him; he'll fail, of course, but Rip's alerted to the issue and will get him back to Gideon, safety, and Mick, and that should solve the problem.

And then Grigori of the long moustaches appears, standing between Len and the legion of Bratva. "He is my guest," the old man snaps. "You will treat him with respect."

The ghosts stop.

"Understood?!" he bellows.

The ghosts retreat.

Len exhales. 

" _Grazhdanin_ Rory said you were a troublemaker," Grigori tells Len, the rage in his face fading away almost instantly, nodding cheerfully and almost pointedly ignoring the ghosts behind him. "But old Grigori, he has influence here, and you? You were kind to my poor little Sveta, who died too young."

Len's never been happier to hear a ghostly tale of gratitude. And of _course_ Mick recruited some ghosts to keep an eye on him – Mick is always keeping an eye on him. A better eye than Len keeps on himself.

"Mr. Snart?" Rip asks from the bottom of the stairs. He sounds a little paranoid, looking around like he thinks he can see the threat of the unquiet dead himself. "Do you think we can proceed, or is there some reason we call it off?"

At least Rip trusts his judgment with one thing, if only about the dead. That's something, anyway. At least it confirms that Len's particular ability with ghosts was why he was recruited. 

Len starts down the steps again. "Just adjusting to the crowd," he says dryly. "We can go."

"It's the middle of the day," Rip points out, glancing at the few people who are almost straining themselves trying not to turn and stare. "There's almost nobody here."

"The dead are always here."

"How unexpectedly poetical of you," Rip says, sounding annoyed. "Very well, if there is no immediate threat, go let Miss Lance in. I will identify our target."

Len goes.

"Any advice?" he asks Grigori. 

"Yuri respects people who keep a cool head," Grigori says. "Values tradition."

"Talk to him about Savage," he tells Rip right before they go inside to the room the local Bratva boss, a man by the name of Yuri, is occupying. "He'll hate the idea of an outsider."

Then he lets Rip go first and get punched up a bit by Yuri, because he's in a bad mood and misses Mick. He figures it'll help with opening up negotiations if they prove themselves. 

Of course, Sara beating up all of Yuri's people helps even more.

Rip glares at Len for not having thrown himself between Rip and Yuri’s fists, but then Yuri starts talking and Rip gets distracted.

"Your intel is great," Len drawls after Yuri explains the basics of what he can give them – the building plans, the weak points, some tips on inside design. "But we need more than that."

Yuri raises his eyebrows.

"You have ways in and out," Len says. "We want them."

"We used the trucks in my day," Grigori says wistfully. "False bottoms, false papers. Bribes, of course."

"Why do you think we have ways in and out?" Yuri asks. “It is a prison. Very tricky.”

"We'd be happy with using the trucks," Len says. 

Yuri stares at him.

"Unless your bribes aren't up to date?" Len asks, sweetly.

Yuri gets them the trucks. 

"Well done, Mr. Snart," Rip says approvingly. “Your familiarity with the criminal underworld is even more useful than I anticipated.”

"Whatever," Len says. "Plan is, Sara and I go in and crack the place open. Kendra, Jax – you good with being back up?"

"Any reason we're on the JV team?" Jax asks, crossing his arms and mock-pouting at Len. He trusts Len’s plans; he’s not actually upset. 

"Mr. Jackson, you are the other half of Firestorm and Miss Saunders, you're the only person who can kill Savage," Rip butts in to say. "I am not going to gift wrap the two people in the world that Savage wants the most."

Len rolls his eyes. Sure, it's not _wrong_ , but now Kendra and Jax are pissed about being sidelined for their own protection, and there was no reason for it. 

Rip's clearly used to doing this whole hero thing solo. Len will have to keep that in mind when thinking about him - his strengths are clearly in battle and tactics, but his grasp on strategy is weak (undoubtedly a result of being part of an organization, getting handed down missions from his superiors, then working out the details of how to fix the issue by himself), and he's not necessarily a great personnel manager, though he has some potential: he displayed excellent taste in selecting them, after all. 

"Miss Lance, might I have a word?" Rip adds.

While Rip and Sara duck out to chat, Len looks at Kendra and Jax, deciding to back Rip's play this time around. Rip's right about one thing: they're a team right now, and they need to work together if they're going to make this missions successful. And it has to be successful. "You're staying on the ship because I ain't going anywhere without backup a second time, and I don't trust our Captain not to ditch us if it looks too shaky. After all, Kendra's the only one of us he really needs."

"You don't think he would..?" Kendra starts.

"Relax. He's just being a paranoid bastard," Jax assures her. "When he's stressed, he always assumes the worst, sometimes to the point of absurdity." 

"Oh. Okay." 

Jax might have a bit of a point, but that's not the real issue here. Len doesn't even mind that Rip's a bit shady about his motives and ruthless in execution. Len’s _used_ to working on teams he can’t fully trust and he's okay with it, but these two aren’t – and he needs them to be fully focused if he’s going to rescue Mick. 

And then Sara comes out of the office and Len sees her hard-set face, and he doesn't even need a ghost to tell him what happened in there.

Goddamn Rip Hunter.


	32. 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special treat extra update this week, since it's a holiday and I have time :)

"So, which one of us is it?" Len asks Sara as their driver transports them into the prison. 

"What?" she asks.

"Which one of us is it?" he repeats, knowing as well as she does that she heard him the first time. "Stein, perhaps? Me?"

"Why would it be you?" Sara asks, surprised.

"So, Stein, then," Len says with disgust. He's not sure why Rip has gotten it fixed into his mind that Savage is after Firestorm, but he's been willing to operate on that basis – after all, while Len is fairly sure the trap is for him, he doesn't actually know that for certain and Rip's got more experience with all things Savage. And, sure, Len would be willing to sign up for the risk of a bullet to the head as a last ditch resort to preserve the world.

Somehow, though, he doesn't think last ditch is what Rip had in mind. 

They haven't even _tried_ a rescue yet, damnit! 

Sara presses her lips together. She puts on a decent front, but her stress is showing. "Snart, I don't know what you're talking – "

"Cut the crap," Len says pleasantly. "I was under the impression you signed up to this gig to be a hero – not someone's pet killer."

"It's not like that!"

"No? If I had to guess, Rip's feeling a little antsy about our chances of success, and he'd like you to get rid of Stein to make _sure_ no Firestorm is created. If you don't, the future is in danger, etc., etc., something like that?"

Sara is silent for a few moments, so Len knows he's right.

"You know, I'd criticize the man for using the same card over and over again, except it seems to keep working on you," Len says.

"It's not – "

Len holds up a finger. "Join my mission or the future is doomed." Another finger. "Stop this nuke sale or future is doomed." Another. "Rescue the ATOM suit piece or future is doomed."

"I get your point," Sara snaps. "It doesn't mean he isn't _right_ , though."

"Sure, it does," Len drawls. "Future was gonna be doomed if we didn't get to that ATOM piece, right? But we did get to it, so the world didn't end up being doomed. Meaning, of course, that if we rescue Stein, the future won't be doomed, either."

"But – "

"Who's it gonna be next time?" Len asks her. He can't afford to be nice about this, not when Jax needs Stein to maintain the triad bond, not when this is the last step Sara needs to take before she lets go of what's left of her conscience. He's spoken with killers-to-be before, scared kids trapped in prison; he knows what they look like if they don't listen to him, after they've taken that final step that goes beyond what their souls can handle - uncaring, indifferent. Ultimately suicidal. He can only imagine how much worse it will be with someone who bound up their identity with heroism. Honestly, Rip should never have asked this of her; he should've known better. There are some things a person can't do and survive intact, and Len's guessing that this is one of them, for Sara. If there's anything Len can say to stop her from even trying to take the shot that she'll torture herself over for the rest of her life, he's going to say it. "Who's it gonna be? Me? Jax? Not Kendra, not until she does what Rip needs her to do. But once you have a killer card in your deck, it's so easy to keep playing it – it's just in case, you know, just so much easier to be _sure_ – "

"It's not _like_ that," Sara insists through gritted teeth. “You don't understand - Rip said –”

"Sure it is. It’s _exactly_ like that," Len says brutally. "And then one day will come the day when he tells you, 'I'm so sorry, Miss Lance – no, Sara. You've come with me through so much. We've achieved so much. But there's a time aberration that you caused just by being here, where I brought you, a really bad one, so I'm going to need you to turn that shooting hand at yourself to preserve the timeline. Don't worry, I'll tell your family you died a hero –'" Len smiles bitterly. "'Right around the time I get around to burying Carter's body.'"

Sara flinches at that last part. "I'm no one's pet killer," she says, her voice low and furious - but better furious than numb and dead and preparing to do a terrible thing. "I make my own decisions, even if you disagree with them."

"Thought your decision was to become a hero," Len drawls. "Guess I was wrong."

"I have no _choice_ , Snart," she says harshly. "I have to do this. Rip showed me – "

"A future that won't happen if you actually put some effort into trying to get Stein out of here instead of into a grave," Len says. "I don't think you get that I'm being _nice_ here, Sara. Nice to you, nice to Rip, too, because he's gonna regret ordering you to do this later on, too; he's going to regret all of it once he's back with his family and trying to explain to them what steps he took to save them, when he's facing up to the fact that they would never be okay with what he's done - to other people. To you. See, I'm trying to talk _your_ language, about heroes and morals and not going back to your little bloodlust addiction the first time someone says the word 'risk'."

She glares at him. "Oh, yeah?" she says challengingly. "And how's it sound in your language, _thief_? You're a killer yourself, aren't you?"

"Used to be," Len says mildly. "I've stopped doing that sort of thing, now; don't want to add to the number of ghosts in the world."

"Answer the damn question, Snart."

"Fine," Len says, crossing his arms and leaning his head back. She wants to play hardball? He'll play hardball. "Here's how it goes in my language: Stein's part of Team Flash and a member of my crew long before you were. You know what happens if you decide to follow Rip's orders to off him like the worthless assassin you apparently really are at heart once we scratch off that hero veneer?"

He watches her flinch at that one.

"Well, then, _Sara_ , if you do that, you're not going to have to _worry_ about the timeline," Len continues. "Because I'm gonna kill you myself, and after I do, I'll tell Barry Allen to pass on to the Arrow exactly how and _why_ of it, and I'll tell him to spread the word to make absolutely certain that your family knows for a _fact_ that you didn't die a hero. I'm gonna let ‘em know - let 'em _all_ know - that you died gagging on the bloodlust you came back with, instead. I'm gonna make sure _that’s_ the last memory they have of you – covered in blood and death, their little white canary gone wrong. Gonna let 'em know what whoever it was that brought you back that last time should have Stein's death on their conscience, make so they know it's all _their_ fault, too. I'm gonna make this so goddamn clear for them that they'll regret that they didn't pray for you to die in that boat you got yourself lost in, ‘cause it would've been better than seeing what you turned into."

She turns to him, furious, her mouth opening and closing in horror and despair.

"Of course, you could kill me to stop that," Len says thoughtfully. "What's another teammate, after all, if you're committing to doing it already?"

"Don't you dare," she whispers. He sees her eyes: they're filled with tears. He's getting to her. "I'm not – I'm not like _that_. This – this is for the greater _good_ , damnit. It's necessary. The risk to the future, to the world - it's too great. This is _necessary_. A necessary sacrifice."

She's trying to talk herself back into it - good. That means he's convinced her out of it, if only a little bit, and now he's got the momentum. He's going to save the goodness in her soul whether she likes it or not, and whether she hates him for doing it afterwards.

Time to play his trump card. 

"So why not just kill Jax now and be done with it?" Len replies, arching his eyebrows at her. "Firestorm requires regular merging to survive, and we're pretty far away from Ronnie. We can kill Jax right now and Stein'll be dead in a few hours. No harm, no foul, no _risk_.”

He watches Sara’s jaw clench.

“No?” he asks sardonically. “But I thought this was about the greater good. And, hell, why not? I'm _sure_ we can rationalize that killing a twenty year old with his whole life in front of him is, how you put it, for the greater good. Hell, maybe we should suggest it to Rip – spot of euthanasia back on the ship, and Stein'll start dying right away, no risk or infiltration needed. I’m sure he’d agree."

He wouldn't, of course. For all his faults, Rip's not a cold-blooded killer - even this play he's pulling now, with Sara, is more desperation than it is well-thought-out. But Sara needs to see where the road of ruthlessness ends, or else she'll keep walking it.

"Damn you," Sara whispers. "Damn you, Snart – "

"Just to remind you: I went with the hero argument first," Len says with a shrug as the truck pulls into the prison. He's done what he can. The rest of it is all up to Sara. "You can say that was what convinced you, if it makes you feel better."

He climbs out of the truck in his guard's uniform. His job, self-assigned, is to find and break the circuit holding the ghosts in. As far as Rip is concerned, Len's just going to go to the prison cells to pop Mick and Ray out the old-fashioned way, and that's how Len likes it. Normally he prefers to work with his crew rather than around them, but he doesn't want any interference.

Sara gets out, too, but she looks pretty shaken. There's a chance Len's words have had an impact.

If not –

Well, if not, Len had better get to that circuit before Sara gets to Stein, or else they'll have two dead teammates – since he was entirely serious about killing Sara in retribution – and Clarissa is going to yell at Stein's ghost _forever_ , assuming he can get Stein’s ghost back on the ship through that ghost-repelling field. Not to mention the potential need for a mutiny to get the Waverider back to 2016 as soon as possible for Jax to merge with Ronnie quickly enough to save his life, in the event that Rip wouldn't agree...

Lots of unpleasant alternatives down that path. Best that Len focus on getting Mick out of this place fast enough to help Len stop Sara, if the need arises. 

Yuri showed Len the electricity plans and, as he’d expected, there is a circuit running through the entire building. Len isn't sure when Savage figured out how to make a medium's circle work through electricity, which is a clever trick, but then again, he _is_ immortal. Savage has had time to learn all sorts of medium's tricks and probably invent a whole new set of them.

And he has Mick.

Len grits his teeth and heads in.

There aren't any ghosts; that's the first thing he notes. There should be a lot – prisons are violent places, filled with death and despair, and Len can't imagine maximum security gulags are noticeably better. That means they're keeping the ghosts somewhere further inside. 

Unfortunately, Yuri's information showed that the main control panel is further inside, too.

Len wheels in a fake hospital bed as his cover.

"What's wrong with him?" a guard grunts. 

"Smallpox," Len replies.

"What?" the guard asks, frowning at him. 

Len consults his mental watch and mentally curses. This is a great time for the babelfish's timer to run out – either Gideon or Rip ought've reminded him, but, of course, they didn't. 

It’s fine, though; Len can speak a bit of Russian, albeit with his usual Central City accent making it very clear that he's American. Thank heaven for a well-rounded prison education. Old Vanya from Iron Heights is probably grinning at Len from wherever he'd long since passed on to, happy that his lessons are finally being used. He'd been alive when he'd taught Len, and had been almost entirely unsurprised about Len's abilities for the exceedingly brief period he'd been a ghost afterwards.

Ray expressed surprise at Len speaking more than one language, when they'd argued over whether or not Len needed the full-out babelfish verion, wondering at how Len had learned something like additional languages when he'd dropped out of school so early, but honestly Len is starting to get used to Ray's clueless knee-jerk classism by now. 

"Smallpox," Len says, in Russian this time. He keeps his voice raspy to try to hide the American accent. "You stupid or something? You don't know what it's called in English? Everyone should know what it is in case they start dropping bombs with it. Isn't that why they want the body?"

The guard looks alarmed, but he lets Len pass through without paying too much attention, clearly far more intent on passing on gossip to his fellow guards about what the prison's mysterious facility is actually being used for. 

Ah, prison gossip. Never changes, no matter what nation. 

Len can hear the ghosts, now, as he gets closer. The background hum never faded away entirely, not like it had with the glass in his head, but it'd been quieter than he'd liked it to be. Either way, the quiet is gone: somewhere up ahead there are a lot of ghosts.

Len reflects momentarily on his mother's advice that he avoid large groups of ghosts and his apparent inability to do so, but puts that aside. He's got Mick to rescue; that trumps everything. 

He makes the next turn.

"Snart?" a familiar voice asks, far too loudly. "Is that you?"

Ray.

Len risks a glance. No one else around.

He turns. Ray's in a cell, looking excited to see him, albeit still mostly reclining. He's fine but for a few bruises – a fairly standard welcome-to-the-yard beatdown, if Len knows his prison beatings (and he does), something more intended to humiliate than to seriously hurt. They must not have started in with the serious torture yet - that, or they decided that Ray wasn't necessary for it. 

"It _is_ you!" Ray exclaims, clearly delighted. 

"Shut up," Len hisses. "Where's Mick? And Stein?"

"They took them to the main room," Ray says. "Stein because of Firestorm, and Mick – I don't know why. It was after they drew blood from us."

Len's never seen Mick's blood under a microscope, even though he knows Mick can summon up a blood splatter like a pro. Ghosts, especially powerful ones, can mimic blood anywhere they want – on walls, in mirrors, and, in Mick's case, to pretend they're human.

Still, there must have been some sign in the blood that identified him. Len will have to take care of that in the future when Mick is back by his side.

He refuses to think of that as an 'if'.

"Here," Len says, pulling Ray's shrunken armor from his pocket and tossing it over. "Put that on. I need you to go back to the ship and bring Jax and an EMP – it's my fall-back plan if I can't cut the lights."

"Got it," Ray says, nodding. "Uh – why are we cutting the lights?"

"We need to escape once we're all free," Len explains, glad he'd thought of a cover story that wouldn’t involve needless amounts of explanation. No way he's mentioning ghosts in the middle of a prison, with all of its superstious inmates potentially eavesdropping. He can explain the whole medium's circle thing when they're back on the ship. "Cutting the lights will cause chaos and help cover our tracks."

"Got it!"

"Oh, and once you've alerted the ship and gotten what we need –" Len already told Jax about the EMP, but Ray stands a better chance of convincing Rip about the necessity. "— you should go find Sara. She's in here, too, looking for Stein and Mick; she'll appreciate the back-up."

Be less likely to murder in front of an audience, Len means. 

Ray nods seriously. "Good luck and be careful," he says. "One of the guys was talking about stringing us up and hitting us with bats until our ribs broke, earlier on, before Savage arrived and decided to do something different."

"Glad we made it here first," Len says, and continues on his way.

"Hey, you," a big guy from a few cells down – one of the few still alert at this hour. His accent is deep, but he's using English, just like Len and Ray had been. " _Amerikanski_. You letting your friend go? How about rest of us?"

Len looks at him. Big, alert, possibly smart, but there's no way to tell his position in the prison hierarchy at a glance. Still, worth a shot. "I'm going to cut the power," he says. "The doors are wired; they ought to open when that happens. If you could see about some people raiding the interior, where the scientists are – "

"They experiment on inmates," the guy says. "We will be happy to help."

"Make sure there aren't any circles painted anywhere," Len advises him. "It's their leader's symbol."

The guy growls. "We will destroy," he promises. "How did you come in?"

"Bratva. Yuri, third precinct." 

"He is good man," the guy says. "What is your name?"

"Leonard Snart," Len says, figuring there's no harm in getting some points in while he's at it. "Not Lewis; he's my good-for-nothing brother and a rat. Central City, US. His kid's good, though; same name as me."

The guy nods. "We will owe you if you release us."

"I promise nothing," Len says. "But I'll aim to."

With that, he continues forward.

He's just ditched the cart and ducked into the electricity control room when he hears them.

"— certainly less useful than we might have hoped." It's Savage. 

"You still should have told me!" Vostok exclaims. "You led me to believe that the man on fire was our target – all of my work has been focused on replicating _his_ abilities –"

"Yes, it has," Savage says, indifferent to her annoyance. "And correctly so. I knew it would either be a scientific marvel or a unique expression of necromancy, and it would only be possible to recreate it even in part if it was the former. When I first saw him, for a brief moment I thought that the spirit of vengeance had crossed the barrier to take form once more – but no. Merely a man, albeit an unusually stubborn one."

She snorts. "Oh, indeed. And what of other one? There is something off about him, other than the fact that his blood type is chimerical."

Savage laughs. "Oh, yes. The other one. The other one you are to leave to me..."

There's a muffled sound.

Len's need to know overwhelms his good judgment and he sneaks out for a look.

There's another containment unit, this time even more filled with ghosts, whirling with rage so thick that Len can see nothing but white lightning inside the glass. The unit has no markings, Len notes distantly; the ghosts are being held in by the electric circuit, magically enhanced. He'd assumed as much, but this is far, far worse than he'd ever thought. Savage and Vostok are shoving them in without the slightest care for space.

He doesn't really pay much attention, though: his attention is capture by a second circle, drawn in paint on the floor.

Mick is there.

Mick is _chained down_ in there, snarling viciously as he can through the gag they've put on him. 

Savage reaches into the circle and strokes Mick's cheek. "Now, now," he croons. "My little savage one, don't tire yourself out so much – or I will press these accouterments onto your very soul, and you will bear them for the remainder of your miserable existence."

Len, safe above, shudders.

Mick, captured below, merely snarls.

"Once your will is broken, you will be a fine addition to my collection," Savage says thoughtfully. "I have never seen a spirit as strong as you – tell me, what special use does the necromancer get out of you, that he empowers you so?"

Mick manages to convey, through the gag, his opinion of Savage's lineage. 

Savage laughs. "You think you will not break? Oh, but you will – and even in the unlikely event that you do not, I will merely devour you." Then he smiles. "But not before you have lured in my dear Chay-Ara – and your necromancer."

Len is _not_ a necromancer, damnit. 

Mick rolls his eyes and garbles something that sounds remarkably similar.

Vostok has been busy in the meantime with Stein, who is handcuffed to a chair. "This one still refuses to talk," she says, nodding at the barely conscious man. They haven't let him rest; that much is clear - he keeps blinking his eyes as though falling asleep. "But no matter – the results of my test of his blood have shown me much. I may have a workable prototype within the hour."

"Do not give me your scientists' estimate, Valentina," Savage replies. "I know they are padded. Do you have the serum ready?"

"Soon," she says, but she's not looking at Savage when she says it. She _does_ have it ready, and she plans to use it soon, too. She was offended by the revelation that he kept information from her, and she's responding by keeping information from him - she intends for the new Soviet Firestorm to be her victory, not his.

Great. Now it's up to Len to fix the future.

Luckily, he has a plan.

Len creeps back to the electric controls. He'd been planning on a staggered breakout – Mick first, then ghosts, then the prisoners for an added bit of chaos – but Mick's circle is paint, not electricity. He'll have to go in personally to break that. 

Great.

Len activates the comms. "Jax, you copy?" he asks.

"Loud and clear, boss. What do you want me to do?"

Len smirks, and tells him.

It takes him about ten minutes to get into the controls. During those ten minutes, Vostok goads Stein and Savage does _something_ to Mick, something that makes Mick roar in pain – actual pain! for Mick! – but Len can't think of that now.

He stores it in the back of his mind for later, once they have a satisfactory plan to kill Savage and make him pay.

For now, he thanks his eclectic education for teaching him all about electric circuits in the 1980s – and about how fragile they could be if you treated them just right.

Len sets them to overload.

“I have the shot,” Sara says through the comms.

Len snarls and sets his comm to a wider frequency – one that includes more than just him, Rip and Sara. “Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he lies.

“I have the shot,” Sara repeats. 

“Good,” Rip says. “Good luck, Miss Lance."

“Wait, what shot?” Kendra asks, just like Len’d hoped she would. “Who are we shooting? Savage? Does that make sense if I’m not the one doing the shooting?”

“Uh,” Sara says.

“Don’t do it, Sara,” Len says. “You’re not a killer, right? You’re a hero. Isn’t that right, Kendra?”

“Of course she is,” Kendra says, puzzled. “Sara’s a great hero – and I’ve met Barry and Oliver.”

“Shit,” Sara says. “I can’t do it.”

“Miss Lance!” Rip exclaims.

“No, Snart's right. That’s not who I am anymore,” Sara says. “Snart - Leonard. Tell me you have a plan.”

“Ray and Jax are enacting it now,” Len reports. “All I need is for you guys to cover our exit.”

“Miss Lance –”

“I’m on it. Shut up, Rip; I can always shoot ‘em later.”

“I think I missed something,” Kendra says.

“Don’t worry about it.” Len says soothingly. “Kendra, can you fly by the right side of the building, as close as you can to the wall?”

“Sure. Will do.”

As Len had hoped, Savage’s head jerks up when Kendra does her fly-by. “She’s near,” he says, “Chay-Ara, my love…”

“What are you talking about?” Vostok asks him, turning to face him.

Turning, just as Len had hoped, _away_ from the stairs – and the increasingly urgent flashes on the computer screen indicating an imminent overload.

The first transistor blows – literally – as Len creeps down the stairs.

"What's going on?" Vostok demands, spinning around and rushing to the computers.

"This is a rescue attempt," Savage says with satisfaction. "Soon, our necromancer will come to us -"

There's a roar of noise that doesn't come from electricity, making Savage frown. "What's that?"

"The prisoners!" Vostok gasps, recognizing the sound of feet and fists and angry voices faster than Savage. "He's released the prisoners!"

"No matter – they will head outside and scatter –"

There's a banging on the door to the lab.

Savage frowns deeper. He wasn't expecting them to be angry enough to attack - clearly, he's been spending too much of his immortal time shadowing powerful men, and not enough time studying mobs. “How secure is that door?”

“It has an electric lock –” Vostok starts.

Len grins. “Now, Ray,” he mutters into his comm.

The skylight crashes as something is dropped from a height.

Savage and Vostok spin around to look, only to spin _back_ around as the EMP blast from the falling bomb shorts out everything in the room, sending it black for a moment. 

That's when Ray in his suit comes flying down through the crack in the skylight, Jax in his arms.

The lights, now powered exclusively from the back-up generators Yuri mentioned as being too deep down to be affected by an EMP, flicker back on when Ray’s already half-way down from the ceiling.

"Don’t let him get close to the professor!" Savage roars.

Vostok grabs a gun and shoots at Ray. Ray promptly drops Jax.

Gravity does what gravity does, and brings Jax down right where his partner is sitting.

They merge in mid-air, the show-offs.

"Get them!" Savage shouts.

"Screw you," Jax says, and throws a fireball at him.

"Get the door open," Len hisses in to the comms, slithering through the lab to get to Mick. "Ray!"

"On it!"

Ray blasts the now-unlocked door open, and suddenly there's a lot of prisoners. Very angry prisoners.

"No!" Vostok shrieks. 

Len makes it to Mick. "Want a ride out?"

Mick's eyes flare white and the gag around his mouth dissolves in flame. He could have done it the whole time – damn overdramatic poltergeists. "You can't break the circle," he says. "It's designed to trap a ghost inside and to drain life from any living person who enters or tries to break it except Savage."

"Shit. How quick does it drain life?"

"What do you mean?"

Len looks over at the containment unit, where the ghosts are raging.

Mick follows his gaze. "Uh," he says, abruptly realizing what Len's thinking. "Yeah, that might work, what with them being unliving but on the outside of the circle and all."

"Good."

Len uses his cold gun on the door, then throws a nearby book at it, shattering it.

And then the ghosts are free – unbound by electricity, unbound by the unit, and backed by Len, who's handing out life left and right. They howl as they rip through the building.

"Holy crap!" Ray shouts as the whole structure of the prison starts to collapse around him.

"Evac time! Everyone!" Jax shouts.

The prisoners don't see the ghosts – Len hasn't given them enough to be visible, since he needs them to focus on ripping things to shreds – but they see the walls collapse. They just don't care, their angry hands grabbing at the guards, at the doctors, at Vostok, pulling them down into the mob.

"Some of you, come here, wreck this circle on the floor," Len commands, his back straightening, his shoulders loosening, his voice echoing with reverberations in the air. He's calm, now; he doesn't even know why he was so stressed and worried before. After all, the ghosts are with him, the armies of the dead – what has he to fear?

None can stand against him, with them on his side. 

"Well done," a voice gurgles from behind Len, causing him to spin around, gun at ready.

It's Savage, his face half-burned from one of Firestorm's blasts. 

Len hopes it hurts, even if though it might not kill him.

"You got through my traps," Savage continues, eyes fixed on Len. "You are more powerful than I believed."

"Smarter, too," Len drawls, taking a step forward. "Don't forget that. If you ever take any action against me and mine, you'll pay for it in pain."

"Brave words," Savage replies mockingly.

"Hardly brave," Len scoffs. "The armies of the dead stand with me. And I'll turn them against you, _medium_ – "

Mick's hand closes over Len's ankle. He's saying something, but Len can't hear him, he's too busy staring at Savage. At the man who _dared_ to take Mick from him, dared to trap Mick somewhere, when Mick should always fly free, free and at Len's side – oh no, whatever Mick might have to say about it, Len is going to _hurt_ this man – he's going to make sure that no one ever thinks to do anything like that ever again -

"Oh, yes, hate me, loathe me," Savage crows. "Do your worst against me, and I will live on, unlike any of your precious dead – so just try it on me, necromancer – "

Len's lips pull back into a snarl and he reaches inside of him for life, for the power to –

Wait.

"For the last fucking time," Len snaps, his voice abruptly back to normal. "I am _not_ a necromancer!"

"Oh, thank god, you're back," Mick says, audibly this time, and throws a crate at Savage, knocking the other man ass over elbows back into the mob as the building falls on them.

Len blinks, feeling strangely disoriented all of a sudden. "Mick," he starts. "What happened -"

"Not now," Mick says. "Ray! Get Len back to the ship! He hit his head!"

Len did _not_ hit his head!

Ray swoops down and grabs Len into his arms, damsel-in-dress style, before Len can properly protest.

“I’ll meet you at the ship!” Mick shouts. “Go!”

“Wait, but –” Len starts

Ray goes, and Len unwillingly goes with him.

Len scowls. 

He’s going to get Mick for this one.


	33. 32

“It was necessary,” Mick says. "You needed to get out of there."

They're on the Waverider's bridge at the moment, standing a bit off to the side. They'd just had a crew get together to have a nice toast to celebrate their success, and now everyone had split up into groups of two: Rip is not-so-subtly interrogating Sara about whether she’s told Stein about his advice that she kill him – managing to simultaneously take the credit for having selected her, flattering her that he'd known she had enough ‘humanity’ not to do the job, and also covering his ass about how necessary it may or may not have been given that Stein is back safe and sound. Jax and Stein are drafting a message they plan to send to their families via Ronnie – or possibly Cisco’s 2016 phone tech, Len’s not sure – and Ray is flirting with Kendra over some vodka Len lifted from the Bratva safehouse. 

Okay, maybe not the best time to have this argument, but damnit, they're having it anyway.

“It was _not_ necessary,” Len snaps, keeping his voice low. "You made me leave you! After you'd been locked away!"

"It was for your own good," Mick says, unmoved. "Just like what you did with sending me away when you were fighting Savage -"

"That was _different_! Your existence was at stake!"

"Yeah, and _you_ were starting to do the megalomaniacal thing, and I was having trouble getting you to drop out of that. That's never happened before, you getting stuck that way; that was new. And you remember what your ma said..."

"You were _chained up_ ," Len says through gritted teeth. "You were chained up by an insane _ghost-eating_ immortal _psychopath_ , who figured out that you were a ghost because apparently ghosts just copy blood samples from everyone around them when they're summoning the stuff, and he was planning on _breaking and enslaving you_! And you made me _leave_!"

"Yeah," Mick says. "And it was a bit traumatizing, sure –"

If Mick is admitting it, it must have been _very_ traumatizing.

"– but I'd hardly say that it constitutes –"

The whole ship shakes.

"What was that?" Ray yelps.

"I believe it is the Hunters," Gideon says. "They've tracked our location."

"Get us into the time stream!" Rip orders.

"Yes, Captain," Gideon says, but the ship takes a nasty hit right before they make the jump, and then there's turbulence. 

Really, _really_ bad turbulence. 

Mick grabs a hold of Len and forces him down to the floor, bracing him down with his own body and ghostly strength even as the other crew members tumble all around them. 

"Damage to the navigational controls, Captain," Gideon reports. "We are now flying blind."

"We're not _flying_ ," Stein chokes out from where he's clinging to his chair. "We're crashing!"

"I'm afraid you're right, Professor," Rip says grimly, pulling himself forward and locking himself into the Captain's chair. "Gideon, switch to manual flight and get us back into the time stream. I'll try to land us as effectively as I can."

As effectively as Rip can includes several bumps and a horrifically loud screech as they grind along asphalt for a few hundred yards before slowing to a halt.

"Is it over?" Mick asks, looking vaguely nauseous. 

"Yes, Mr. Rory, I do think so," Rip says, rubbing his face. "Gideon, where are we?"

"Star City, 2046."

"That's not possible," Sara says. She's looking out the main console window. "This can't be Star City."

Len elbows Mick off of him and scrambles to his feet to take a look. And then he sees it.

A city in flames. Broken down buildings shrouded in darkness, mobs roaming the street, fires at every corner –

A post-apocalyptic nightmare. 

"What happened?" Jax asks, voice hushed.

"It doesn't matter," Rip says, shaking his head. "I recognize the signs: this is an unstable future, one that hasn't settled yet. It'll disappear on its own in a short period of time, once the original incidents that cause it have been repaired. We should leave at once. Gideon –"

"Unfortunately, that won't be possible," Gideon says apologetically. "Several pieces of the Waverider have been severely damaged and will need to be repaired before we take off again – and I'm afraid there's one that will need to be replaced entirely."

"Replaced?" Ray says. " _Here_?"

"He has a point," Len says. It's not like there's likely to be a supermarket for high-end electronic goods in this period, and Ray would know - he probably knows the most about mechanical engineering out of the lot of them...

"Hey," Ray says, peering out the window, "is that the Palmer Tech building, but with a Smoak logo?"

...assuming he can control himself long enough to pay attention, anyway. 

"This is bad," Sara says, staring in horror. "Really bad. Is there anything even _left_ here?"

“Yeah, my vote’s going for no,” Jax says, making a face.

“My sister’s apartment was over there,” Sara continues, jabbing at a darkened half-wrecked apartment building that looks to Len's eyes similar to all the others around it. “My dad – he was a police captain. And then there was Oliver – damnit, they would _never_ have let something like this happen…unless they were dead.”

"What's the piece we require, Gideon?" Rip asks, ignoring them all.

"A neuromorphic interface, Captain," Gideon says. "It is essential for navigation and – I'm sorry to say – for my logic functions. I will be shutting down shortly to prevent any difficulties."

Rip looks shaken by that.

"Hey," Ray says. "Palmer Tech was working on a neuromorphic cortex in my era; they must be at the prototype stage by now!"

"You sure they didn't get distracted by the whole hellscape end-of-the-world thing?" Len drawls. "I've heard that has negative effects on technological development..."

"Oliver!" Sara shouts, clearly seeing something outside, and dashes out of the Waverider.

"This is gonna go well," Mick grumbles and follows her out, closely followed by Ray and Kendra.

"If I understand Captain Hunter and Mr. Palmer correctly, all we need to do to leave here is to go to Palmer Tech, locate the prototype, and return?" Stein asks, looking around a little helplessly. It's clear he doesn't want to leave the ship. 

"Indeed," Rip says. "I can work on repairs in the meantime."

"I'll help," Jax says.

"I'm not sure that will be necessary, Mr. Jackson; the Waverider is a very complex – " Rip starts.

"An engine's an engine," Jax interrupts, a little frostily. "And Gideon mentioned multiple repairs. I'll take the back; you start up here. Grey?"

"I'm with you," Stein says.

"Ah, well, then there's no problem," Rip says. “Mr. Snart, since you seem so avid to assume control, please ensure that Miss Lance does not destroy the timeline and that Mr. Palmer identifies and retrieves the correct piece.” With that, he bustles off.

"I'm gonna punch that guy one day," Jax grumbles. "I can do engines better than Stein can, and he knows it."

“I’ll be with you,” Len mutters. He doesn’t want to assume control, what the hell is Rip talking about? Does he mean Len’s attempts to make this mission less of a total failure?

"Ignore him, Jefferson," Stein says. "Come on; you can teach me more engineering."

"Auto repair."

"Please, Jefferson. I'm delighted to follow your lead in your area of expertise, but let me keep my illusions..."

Len shakes his head and grabs his gun, heading outside. He'd rather be on Team 'Steal a Prototype' over Team 'Tinkering With The Ship' any day.

He finds Mick and Sara arguing.

"Why did you fire on him?" she's protesting. 

"Because Robin Hood was firing on _us_?" Mick asks, gesturing with his gun at a handful of arrows in the wall. "I don't know about you, but I don't appreciate being shish-kebabed."

"He wouldn't –"

"He shot Barry in the back, twice," Len notes, coming to join them. "And that was pre-hellscape."

"It's beautiful," Mick says wistfully. Len's pretty sure he doesn't mean Barry getting shot, since neither of them had seen it, so he must mean the hellscape.

Well, it _does_ have a lot of fire going for it, and in Mick's book that's usually a plus. 

"Anyway, we gonna get that piece or what?" Len asks, watching the ghosts – and there are many of them – start to slowly migrate in his direction.

"Palmer Tech's not far," Ray says. "I can –”

“You can nothing,” Sara interrupts. “You go back and help fix the insides. You too, Kendra. This is my city; I know how to get in there - I can get there and back easier without help.”

“Yeah,” Ray says, crossing his arms. “But do you know what the neuromorphic cortex looks like?”

Sara pauses.

“This isn't a dictatorship, remember?” Kendra says, taking Ray’s side. “What goes for Rip goes for the rest of us. C’mon, Sara, let us help.” Her mouth twists. “Besides, it’d be nice not to be benched every mission because I’m ‘too valuable’.”

“Oh, all right,” Sara says, smiling a bit at them. “Come on, then. We'll all go together.” 

“This way!” Ray says perkily.

Of course, that's when they run into a blockade. Not really what Len's used to calling a blockade: this is a giant barricade built out of cars and collapsed buildings and crewed with gangs, and it goes several streets across. 

Oh, and there's gunfire, too.

Peachy. 

They duck into an abandoned bus for cover.

"Damnit," Sara curses, looking around. "We need another route – Ray, Kendra, you come with me, I have an idea. Snart, Rory – you two stay here. We'll be right back."

"No, wait –" Len starts, but none of these are his people, so they all run out before he can finish his sentence.

He settles back in his seat, perturbed. "Why do they keep ditching the only actual thieves in the group whenever they need to steal something?" he complains.

Mick chuckles. "No idea. We're not actually just gonna sit here, right?"

"Yeah, no," Len says. "And I'm still pissed at you, you know."

"Sure thing, boss," Mick says, already heading off the bus.

Len sighs. "Any ghosts here capable of subtlety?" he asks the air as he follows Mick.

Plenty of ghosts perk up around him. "We can help!" one – a cheerful young black man – says. He gets elbowed by the ghost next to him, a Hispanic man with a scowl. 

"Thanks," Len says. "What's your name?"

"Curtis Holt. This here's Rene, and this –" he gestures at a third ghost. "— this is Rory Regan."

Len has a slight bias for people named Rory, for obvious reasons. "Can you guys do me a favor and keep an eye on my friends? The ones who just dashed off who knows where?"

He gives them life in what, by this point, is almost an unconscious reflex. 

They all look pleased with that. "On it, hoss," Rene says, and they all zip off.

Len nods, pleased, and follows Mick.

"Look at this place," Mick says. "Fire everywhere, crime everywhere – _ghosts_ everywhere. Hell, the ghosts are practically on level with the living here."

"In terms of numbers, they usually are," Len drawls, but he's noticed what Mick's noticed, too. The ghosts here are unusually strong – _extraordinarily_ strong, in fact. The trio he'd empowered had enjoyed the extra boost he'd given them, but they hadn't really _needed_ it, not really. They already had more than enough life to fuel them. 

It's a little worrying, actually. What could possibly have happened to strengthen all these ghosts?

"They're all friendlies, too," Mick is crowing happily. "Look at 'em. Each and every one, well behaved."

"There's something I don't like about this place," Len says. Maybe they should've stayed back on Team Tinkering. 

"C'mon, Lenny – let's go rob a bank, yeah? Stretch our legs!"

"What's the point of robbing a bank without any guards," Len grumbles, but he has no intention of letting Mick out of his sight, so he follows. “We still need to talk about what happened, Mick.”

“Later,” Mick says. “Look at this place. This place is great!”

Len looks around. “This street, or the hellscape in general?” he asks, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. 

Mick just grins at him. “Look,” he says, pointing down one street. “More ghosts!”

“That’s pretty normal around me, Mick…”

Mick is already heading down the block. 

Len rolls his eyes and follows him. "I'm still mad at you, you know!" he calls.

Mick ignores him, but Len was kind of expecting that.

He's _not_ expecting what they find when they get, after a few twists and turns, to where Mick was apparently heading.

It's a dance party.

No, not quite. There's dancing, yes, and laughter and fighting and a frankly enormous bonfire and all the other things that make up a party, but this is a party comprised entirely of ghosts.

"What in the world..?" Len starts, but Mick is already ahead of him.

There's a big, burly ghost in a shaggy fur coat intercepting him, but Mick says a few words, pointing at the gigantic bonfire, and then they're both laughing and slapping each other on the back.

The burly ghost even gives Mick his coat.

Len frowns and gestures for one of the ghosts to come to him.

They ignore him, which – well, _that's_ certainly never happened before. 

Len takes a closer look at the ghosts. They're strong, as he'd noticed before – poltergeists and manifestations, all of them, not a single weak apparition or mere presence in the whole lot of them. Each and every one apparent on the visible spectrum, judging by the way the small handful of living folk on the edges of the crowd laugh and interact with them.

The ghosts are practically brimming with life, actually. Not their own – they're still ghosts – but someone's. They have the look and feel of ghosts that Len's empowered, actually. 

It's a little creepy, Len's gotta say, and Len's _used_ to the dead always being around. There's just so _many_ of them. Far, far more than he's ever called willingly – maybe even as many as there were on Earth-2, except unlike those, these ones are all impossibly strong. None of them are as strong as Mick, no, but it's almost like Len has just filled them all up to bursting.

It's _weird_ .

Len has nothing to offer these ghosts, already drunk with power and life. But Mick was right – they're all friendlies. Not a single one of the grasping unquiet dead among them.

Yeah, that's even _weirder_.

Len steps forward into the crowd – in which he's lost Mick, off dancing somewhere – and grabs one of the ghosts by the sleeve. "What's going on?" he asks. "How's everyone so powerful?"

"Don't you see the bonfire, dumbass?" the ghost replies.

"I don't understand."

"It's Lag Ba'omer!"

"The - bonfire holiday?" Len asks, puzzled. He knows what Lag Ba'omer is, of course. "Is – is everyone here _Jewish_?!"

Honestly, that's even more implausible than all these ghosts having so much life to share amongst them. Len's never kidded himself about the size of the Jewish community in Central and Keystone (moderate compared to other cities in the region, but still definitely not enough to field a celebration this large), and from what he vaguely recalls, Star City had even fewer. Gotham had a lot more, obviously, but this is _definitely_ not Gotham...

"No, obviously not," the ghost says impatiently. "But we all celebrate it anyway."

"Why?" Len asks. It's Mick's favorite holiday – Len would've been less surprised by Mick's sudden giddiness if he thought that Mick knew what day it was – but even so, it's hardly like it's a major holiday for the Jews. Hell, Len's only half-sure what it's about – the Bar Kochba rebellion, maybe? Something like that? Either way, traditionally celebrated with a bonfire, plus lots of dancing, singing, fighting, all that. They tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat, the usual. "Why do you all celebrate it?"

The ghost looks at Len like he's lost his mind. "Because He does. Do you know nothing?"

"He..?" Len asks, his heart sinking. That didn't sound promising.

Hollywood and sci-fi novels have taught him that no one good was ever referred to as just 'He'.

"Yes, _you know_."

"I really, really don't," Len says. "Who's He? What does He do?"

"He is all of this!" the ghost exclaims, waving his hands around and inadvertently breaking Len's grip on his arm. "It is His power that we all drink from, especially on holidays – this holiday even more than others."

"Uh-huh. And does He have a name?" Len asks.

The ghost just shoots him a disgusted look and flits off into the crowd, his frown fading into a grin. They're all grinning, actually, it's a little creepy.

Len needs to find Mick _now_. He doesn't know what's going on, but he doesn't like it. And now that he thinks about it, he likes the fact that Mick's gone and disappeared into the crowd even less. Mick is supposed to be Len right hand, damnit, not ditching Len alone in a crowd filled with strangers. That's absolutely unlike Mick, who usually takes his job guarding Len extremely seriously. Where has he gone? And why has he left Len alone?

Another grinning, laughing ghost spins by. They're all grinning, all laughing, every single one of them –

Shit, they're all _high_. 

High on power, high on life – to life, to life, l'chaim, as the song goes – and Mick among them. For all the power Len gives him, Mick's still a ghost, and that means he's affected by the same overflow as the rest of them. 

Len's starting to get _real_ tired of finding out new things about ghosts. He'd been comfortable with things as they were, damnit.

If only they hadn't come on this damn trip...

He could call for Mick, his usual resort when he couldn't spot his husband, but he doesn't dare. Len had enough of calling for someone who couldn't answer when Mick was in Savage's hands; he doesn't want to deal with calling for a Mick _refusing_ to answer. 

But how else can he find him in this stupid crowd?

The crowd shivers, suddenly, all together, a long, drawn-out shudder of enjoyment, and Len's about to catch another ghost to ask them what's happening when he feels it, too. 

Life. Lots of it, powerful amounts, amounts that make even Len gasp with the feeling of it, all of it washing over the crowd of ghosts like a flood. How can anyone alive have so much life to share?

But – it's not warm. It's not life like he's familiar with, not the beating heartbeat and hot blood that he's accustomed to thinking of life as resembling; this power is cool, cold, even, like dipping into a brisk mountain pool or getting the first blast from an icy hose right in the face. 

It's _angry_. Resentful. Mournful. 

And it has motive.

No, not it. 

_Him._

Whoever it is, the person with all that power, he wants something. He wants the ghosts to celebrate the holiday, that much is clear. He wants them to dance and scream and riot and break things, wants them to _burn_ things, wants them to light this city on fire and give the finest parts of it to the Lord – no, not to the Lord; there's nothing of the divine or religious in this mockery of a celebration. This is being done in someone's name, someone beloved, someone who ought to be lighting the fires, but who isn't there, who isn't ever _there_ where he _should_ be –

Len shudders himself as the presence sweeps inexorably onward. He'd gotten swept up in it, just like the rest of them, but what's left behind for him isn't pleasure. 

It's fear. 

Because all of a suddenly Len knows why the power he felt was cool, not warm. He knows why the ghosts are so pleased, so strong, so powerful. He knows what the presence behind that power is.

This is the work of a necromancer. 

No wonder his mom warned him against them. No wonder he always felt an automatic revulsion to the idea of being mistaken for one. 

Really, it's a wonder that the mediums Len has met have mistaken him for one. He's not anywhere near this powerful; his power is _his_ life, drawn from his heart and soul and none other. This necromancer draws his power not only from inside, but from outside, ripping life away from the living without a hint of remorse or regret, and redistributing all of that stolen life to the dead. 

This is the sort of serious business that has Len desperately wanting to run the other way.

Now if only he could find Mick –

He's found Mick.

Mick is wearing that awful shaggy coat, someone has given him a _chalice_ , a real one like right out of some medieval times reenactment or something, and he's teetering on the big stage someone set up. He appears to be naming people after characters from Happy Days.

Len regrets every idle thought he's ever had wondering about how Mick was like when he was high.

The answer, clearly, is _incredibly_ annoying.

He fights his way forward to the stage. "Hey, your Highness!" he calls. "Might I have a word?"

"Lenny!" Mick says gleefully, hopping off and wrapping his arms around Len. Len can't quite resist a faint smile at that.

The smile fades when he recalls the wave of necromantic power. "Mick, we're getting out of here."

"Why?" Mick asks. "You're safe here - finally safe, really safe! No unquiet dead, just friendlies – "

"There's a necromancer here!"

"So?"

Len grits his teeth. "We need to rescue our friends," he tries.

"You don't actually like any of 'em," Mick points out.

"I like Jax! And Stein!"

"And they're safely back on the ship. They can join us!"

"We're in a nightmare _hellscape_ , Mick. We're not staying."

"But – "

Len grabs Mick by the shoulders, trying to hide the growing terror pooling in his gut. "Mick. We need to go."

He will _not_ let this necromancer have Mick the way he has all the others. He can have every other ghost in the city – hell, in the country. But not Mick.

Len's suddenly convinced, suddenly absolutely if irrationally certain that if they stay here much longer, the necromancer is going to take Mick away.

"I don't wanna," Mick says stubbornly. "It's _nice_ here. No worries. It's, like, a perfect vacation spot. No unquiet dead! No armies calling for you to lead 'em! You won't die here!"

"As much as it's fun on the Island of the Lotus Eaters, we can't stay."

"Awww, c'mon," Mick whines. "I just want you to be safe, Lenny."

He pulls Len close, nuzzling his forehead.

Len sighs. "You're high, Mick. Or drunk. Or whatever."

"No, m'not."

"You're _slurring_."

"Didn't drink nothing."

"You're high on life," Len says patiently. "It's clouding your senses."

Mick sticks out his tongue.

Len has a sudden overwhelming desire to film this and show Mick later. How many opportunities will he have, after all? Sure, it's a hellscape, but Mick's not wrong, there's no unquiet dead here, no armies for Len to get megalomaniacal over, no serious threat.

Just as Len's thinking that, there's another wave of power washing over the area. Cool, cold power, but this time He is looking for something. For someone. He _longs_ for that someone, that spark that used to belong just to him, He _misses_ that spark – He wants that spark _back_ , and He’s not too picky about how it gets it –

Len can feel his face twist into a scowl. _No_ , he thinks back fiercely. _He's mine! You can't have him!_

He feels stupid a minute later. Why is he so sure the necromancer wants Mick, anyway?

Except – he is. 

Len can still feel Him searching for something.

"Like Sauron's eye," he mutters to himself and tugs on Mick. "Let's go, Mick."

"Sure," Mick says amiably. "Where are we going? Another bonfire? They're real fine, ain't they?"

Len's going to be the first man alive to strangle a ghost. Drunk and high Mick has no attention span whatsoever. 

There's a buzz on the comms that sounds like Len's name.

Len flicks it on. "What was that?"

"We need backup," Sara says, her voice furious. "We need to stop Slade from destroying what's left of this city. Rip refuses."

"I keep telling you, this is an unstable future," Rip replies testily. "It hasn't settled yet. It's not a vision of a future that _will_ happen, it's a future that _could_ happen – "

"Oliver says it's because of us," Sara exclaims. "It’s because we left! We weren't here to help fight Slade and his army off at the beginning, and that's why this all happened! Ray and me, this is our fault."

"We have to help fix it," Ray agrees, unusually solemn.

"You can fix it simply by going back and being there at the crucial battle," Rip says impatiently. "There are a number of factors, many of which are unrelated to us, that could simply wipe this future away. It's far more dangerous for us to stay than to simply repair the ship and leave immediately."

"We're not leaving them like this, Rip."

"I keep telling you, it doesn't matter what you do _now_ , here, in this place! Even if you do fix everything, it doesn't matter because the whole future will be wiped away regardless."

"We still have to fix it. Both in the past, and now."

"But – "

"This is a possible future," Ray interjects. "That means it could happen. It's our job to help them – and if we can make things better, in the event that this _does_ happen despite all our best efforts, then we will have helped these people."

Len's gotta admit, the idea of this future never happening is very appealing. As is the idea of leaving as soon as possible. But Sara and Ray will never be able to forgive themselves if they did – and Len's not so stupid as to doubt that he would've had the same reaction if this was Central.

"I can only promise my cold gun," he says into the comms, figuring he'd better give them a heads up that his usual resources aren't available. "But tell me where to go, and I'll be there."

"Thanks, Snart."

Len glares at Mick. "Mick'll come too."

"I am?" 

Len mutes the comms. "Yes, you damn well are."

"Okay, cool. Where are we going? Are we going to go find someone?"

Len wants to find the necromancer and tell him to keep his hands off of Mick, that's what he wants.

"No, we're gonna go help Sara and Ray. Together." 

"As long as we're together," Mick says, and takes Len's arm.

"Oh, we're staying together," Len says grimly, locking down his concern over Mick’s condition. They’re going to go help, then they’re going to leave, and there’s going to be no more to it. "We are _definitely_ staying together. C'mon."

They go.

When they get there, it's kind of a mess. 

"Are we fighting an army?" Len asks Sara wryly.

"Maybe," Sara says. "We're mostly trying to rescue Conner. He's been taken by Grant Wilson's men."

"Guy with the half-mask and the crazy?" Len guesses. He’d seen the man earlier, preaching to a bunch of ghosts – he seems to be one of the few living in this city. Len can tell from the way the guy is starting to get emaciated with life flooding in and out of him at the necromancer’s whim. He clearly lost his mind long ago.

"That's the one."

"Right. What's the plan?"

"You and Mick to the left. Ray and Kendra are in position on the right. Come in on my mark," she instructs. 

Len nods. "Don't aim to kill," he reminds her. "No point to it." 

Then he drags Mick over to where they're supposed to go, because Mick's gotten distracted.

"You're all going to die!" Rip squawks. "For a future that doesn't even _exist_! There’s no _point_ to this!"

"It's important,” Sara says firmly. 

"You are all coming back to the ship this instant, or I'm leaving without you."

"You're not leaving without Kendra," Ray points out.

"You need me to defeat Savage," Kendra agrees. 

"Or is it only when it's _your_ family in danger that you're willing to change the timeline?" Sara adds poisonously.

Good for them, showing some spirit.

"Don't you dare play that card," Rip snaps at her.

"We'll play what we have to," Sara says. “This is important to us, Rip, and no amount of yelling or rationalizations on your part is going to change that.”

"What's the point of defeating Savage," Kendra asks quietly, "if we become as immoral as he is in the process?"

"What the ladies mean, I think, is – join in or shut up," Len drawls. "Which one is up to you."

Then he shuts off his comms (of course Rip's going to join up - he has morals, deep down, even if his training seems to be designed to have him ignore them) and side-eyes Mick. "You gonna fight?"

Mick perks up at the thought of a fight, which is at least something.

The guy on the stage starts the show. It's a public execution of the only other living guy on the stage; honestly, Len feels that's a bit in bad taste. But the ghosts in the crowd are eating it up.

"— and so he shall die!" Wilson howls at the crowd. He's as mad as a hatter. "He shall join the legions of the holy dead that haunt this city! Upon this very spot where I took Oliver Queen's arm, I will destroy the last piece of the Green Arrow's hold upon this city!"

Len feels His power starting up that search again, but he doesn't have time for that. 

Sara's being dragged forward towards the stage by another living figure, a hooded one. 

"We saw her trying to sneak past the perimeter," Ray's voice, recognizable to Len even through the distance and a shoddy attempt at disguise, says. He gives her a shake.

"The League of Assassins would be embarrassed," Wilson says. He laughs. "What was your strategy? Were you just going to run in and kill me?"

"Nah," Sara says. "Just distract you. Now!"

" _Now_ , Mick," Len hisses and swings into action, swinging his cold gun on the widest possible arc, making the ghosts in the audience, rich on life and almost human in their instincts, jump away or duck or otherwise get distracted.

It takes Mick an extra heartbeat, but there he is, at Len's side where he ought to be, wielding his heat gun with a grin. "Fry, piggies!" he shouts.

"You want to fight the Green Arrow?" someone shouts from above, and Kendra is swooping in, wings angled down for a dive, and she drops off a man. One of his arms is robotic. His hair is blond, his beard scraggly, but his features are familiar. 

Oliver Queen.

"Oliver!" the other Green Arrow (Connor? is Len supposed to be keeping track?) shouts, and dives forward to stand by Queen's side against Wilson.

Kendra turns off from their battle to attack the crowd, dive-bombing it and swinging her mace, hitting virtually no one but very effectively scattering them. Ray has also flown up, and he's using his repulsor blasts to head them off.

And then Firestorm is there, soaring down to run lines through the crowd.

"How'd you convince Rip to let you come?" Sara shouts.

"His suggestion," Jax shouts. "And he has another suggestion, too!"

The Waverider uncloaks right above the stage and opens fire all around.

The ghosts scatter like cockroaches exposed to light.

"We got 'em!" Mick shouts, confident and glorious, perched on an old wrecked car, his gun aimed towards the crowd. He laughs, loud and carrying. "Run, cowards!"

And suddenly Len's excited.

No, not Len. It's not Len feeling that. 

It's _Him_.

He's found what he was looking for.

He _wants_ it, he wants it bad, it's what he's missed for so long, what's been missing for so long – what was once his, what _ought_ to be his, he who commands the dead in their legions, who holds the power of life and death in his hand, he who wants only one thing, that thing he could not get, and here it is, right in front of him, standing on an old wrecked car, wielding his gun and laughing, loud and carrying –

He's after Mick!

Damnit, Len _knew_ it!

"Oh no you _don't_ , you bastard," Len hisses. He flicks on his comm. "Rip! We need pick up! Now!"

"I'm on my way," Rip says. "You have the final piece?"

"I've got it," Ray reports. "Thanks for the back-up, Rip. You're a good man."

"Pick up, Rip!" Len shouts, seeing how the ghosts are turning, all together in creepy controlled unison, the few who are left in the square, to look straight at Mick. The necromancer has cast aside their free will - he's looking through their eyes. “ _Now_!”

Sara and Ray and Kendra are on the stage. They're shaking hands with Queen and Conner, talking quietly. Wilson's body is pieced through with arrows, lying nearby.

They don't realize that every ghost in the goddamn city is on their way here right now, driven by their master's desire, and this time no arrows, no flame, no cold is going to repel them. The dead do not stop for such minor inconveniences, not when they remember they're dead.

"Rip!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Rip snaps, annoyed. He lands. "Miss Lance, Mr. Palmer, Ms. Saunders, if you would be so kind?"

"Yeah, we're coming," Sara says. She sounds emotional; Queen must've given her a pep talk. 

"Mick, c'mon," Len says to Mick, who's stopped laughing and is looking around, confused.

"Did you call my name?" he asks Len. 

"Yeah, just now."

"No, earlier. You're calling my name right now. You've been hurt –"

"I'm _fine_ ," Len snaps. "I'm not calling your name, that's Him! He's the one that wants you - he's the one calling, but I'm not going to let you answer! Now come on, let's get on the ship!"

"But – "

"I'm not letting Him have you, damnit!" Len shouts. "You're _my_ goddamn husband. If he wants someone, he has a whole city to pick from; you're staying with me."

He straightens his back and he pulls as much of his strength as he can, and he looks Mick straight on, and he says with every bit of focus he can, his voice reverberating the way it does when he's using power in great amounts, "Mick! Get – on – the – ship!"

Mick scrambles for the ship.

"The rest of you, back!" Len shouts, pushing as hard as he can, all his protectiveness, all his worry, all his love behind it, and the ghosts that have approached, hands outstretched, all fall back.

Not for long – whoever He is, He's more powerful than Len, no question – but for long enough.

Len follows Mick onto the ship, and the others are right behind him.

"Let's get out of here," he says to Rip, who's perched in the captain's seat like he's expecting praise. 

"Certainly, Mr. Snart. Mr. Palmer, the last piece?"

Ray produces it. Jax and Stein, coming after him, split up and Jax plucks it out of his hand and rushes off.

"Get that in quick as you can!" Len shouts after him. “We need to get out of this place.”

"Indeed," Rip says, his smugness fading into sincere concern. "It appears the crowd is gathering once more."

“I believe they’re preparing for a charge, Captain,” Gideon reports. She also sounds concerned. 

Len looks outside, expecting to feel Him raging at the loss, to feel Him preparing to lash out, and he does – he feels it, he feels rage, anger, fury and –

But then that feeling stops. Len can feel Him curling back in on himself.

Len can tell that He's still angry, he's so angry, but there's – it's loss. Terrible, terrible loss; a ghastly, horrible loss, a terrible pain.

Resignation. 

Sadness.

 _Take care of him_ , He is saying in a sudden rush of emotion so crystal clear it's almost audible, _willing_ Len to do as he says. _Take care of him and don't lose him. Don't you dare lose him!_

And suddenly He cuts off abruptly. 

Len opens his eyes, which he hadn't realized he closed.

While he wasn't paying attention, the Waverider made the jump into the time stream. 

They're out.

They're _out_.

Len exhales, hard. They're out. They're _safe_.

"What the fuck," Mick says flatly. He's strapped into the seat next to him.

Len feels relief, but also a little guilt. He's never ordered Mick to do anything like that before, not even for his own good. Sending him away from Savage was probably the closest he ever came to doing something like that and even that wasn't anything like this, anything like actually imposing his will over Mick's and _forcing_ him to do as Len ordered. He'd never done that before.

He'd promised himself he never would.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, squashing down that feeling of guilt. It's not helping right now. 

"What the _fuck_ was that," Mick says again. "There was – I was –"

"High," Len suggests. "Drunk."

"No fucking kidding," Mick says. "The fuck. I didn't know that was _possible_."

"We're learning all sorts of new things on this trip," Len grumbles, and he leans his head back on the chair.

Fucking hell.

It’s official: Len _hates_ time travel.


	34. 33

"You want in?" Jax asks, poking his head through the door.

Len catches the bouncy ball he's been pelting against the wall. "In on what?"

"Betting pool."

"On what?"

"Who's gonna kill someone first," Jax says cheerfully. "Sara, to kill Rip if he keeps moping about us having no leads; Kendra, to kill Ray if he doesn't man up and ask her out already; or Mick, to kill you if you don't stop worrying about him."

"Me, to kill both you and Mick if you don't drop this?"

"C'mon, boss!"

"...put me down for Sara," Len sighs.

"And maybe you’ll talk to Mick about your increasing paranoia..?"

Len reaches for his cold gun.

"Maybe another time!" Jax shouts as he runs out of the door.

"Maybe we _should_ talk about that," Mick says from where he's been pacing soundlessly behind the door. 

"Sure," Len says, and throws the ball as hard as he can against the wall. "While we're at it, let's talk about when we're going home."

Mick stops pacing. 

"Yeah," Len says bitterly, catching the ball. "That's what I thought."

"Aw, Lenny –"

"This job has been one snake-bit disaster after another, true or false?"

"True," Mick concedes. 

"Now, I'm all for taking Kendra to track down and murder this asshole medium," Len says. "I just don't see why we have to do it _here_ , on this ship, with these people. If Savage is immortal, then he's around in our time, and we have a lot more resources available to us then."

"I still think we should stay."

"You haven't given me a good reason for that, other than those stupid dreams," Len says. This argument's been building the entirety of this past week - Len edging around the subject about how he'd had to order Mick around, Mick brushing the whole thing off but not really, Len looking back at all of his activity this trip and realizing with a terrible lurch how he's managed to break his own rules as to Mick _twice_ so far, and each time facing up to a greater and greater threat. 

Len's not sure if it's his curse or what, but he can do the math easy enough. If they stay here on this ship, on this voyage, all alone and vulnerable, with more and more people attacking him, then one day, maybe soon, Mick's going to end up - 

Well, he's already dead. But whatever it is, it's not going to be good. 

Which means, of course, that - as any _rational_ person could tell - that they should stop playing their losing hand, take their losses, and retreat to a position of strength.

Len's made his position about this clear, and he just can't understand why Mick, the one who's actually _in danger here_ , is having such trouble seeing it. 

Mick crosses his arms. "Those 'stupid dreams' were good enough reason for you to start."

"Yeah, that was before you got captured by a medium," Len says, his voice icy. "And got high as a kite thanks to a _necromancer_."

The thought of 2046 still puts ice into Len's spine every time he thinks about it - which he tries not to, whenever possible. A necromancer, a real necromancer...fuck no, Len's nothing like that. 

He doesn’t mention that the necromancer was after Mick. It’s not relevant anymore, anyway, since they’re safely away and there’s no purpose in worrying Mick about it, but it still gnaws on his mind.

He wakes up at night because of it, sometimes, sick with sweat and shaking and refusing to tell Mick what's wrong, yes. But it's not _relevant_ anymore, damnit. They're out. They're safe. 

There's no need to burden Mick with it. His dreams of being dragged to some strange fate are enough to worry them both as it is. 

"I knew that was the real issue," Mick grumbles and throws himself down to sit on the floor next to Len. "I didn't even know necromancers were a real thing, y'know, rather than just something people called you that you didn't like."

"Me either," Len says, then sighs, his shoulders slumping a little. "Admittedly, before last year, I was pretty shaky on mediums, too. I just don’t have the support system I need to know what I'm dealing with here. Talking to my mom was a good idea."

It’d also helped a little, to remember her more for who she was when she was alive rather than how he watched her dying on the floor.

"The guy in 2046 was the closest we came to finding someone who works the way you do, though," Mick says contemplatively. 

"Sure," Len says, rolling his eyes. "Worked just the way I do, just plus a bit of megalomania and _killing people to steal their life_."

"Yeah, that's not so much like you," Mick agrees. "Certainly since you've stopped killing people."

Len sighs again. He never enjoyed killing people, but he's definitely much less willing to do it now that the chance of having to deal with their ghost has risen significantly. It used to be that only ghosts with significant regrets would stick around; nowadays it feels like they stick around regardless, and mostly out of curiosity about _him_. At least he can encourage most of the gawkers to pass on quickly enough...

"This trip is still snake-bit," he says stubbornly. That point hasn't changed. 

"Boss – _Len_ – it's – "

"Mr. Snart?" Stein says, popping his head through the door.

Both Len and Mick scowl at him for coming in without knocking. Len's been enjoying having some downtime without too many ghosts on the ship - he can still hear the distant murmurs of the dead, so it doesn't cause any flashbacks to the time with his dad, but they're far away and not hanging around him, and that made it feel almost bizarrely like a vacation from his real life - but not getting warnings on who's coming is starting to annoy him.

Also, given the sheer tedium of the last week of being stuck on this tin can while floating pointlessly in the timestream, Len is fairly sure nothing Stein has to say was worth interrupting them without knocking first.

“Captain Hunter has had another bad idea.”

Scratch that; Len’s wrong, that is _definitely_ worth interrupting over. 

Len and Mick exchange long-suffering looks as they both scramble up and head to the main bridge. 

“Okay, what’s Rip done wrong now?” Len drawls as he enters.

Rip glares at him. “That was uncalled for, Mr. Snart.”

“Not sure why, given that you’ve been having a crisis of conscience about whether you’re a good enough Time Master for the last _week_ ,” Sara mutters under her breath. 

“Miss Lance –”

“You’ve locked yourself away from us to watch recordings of your dead family,” Sara snaps. “I can sympathize with your grief, but not with the fact that you lock us out and keep us hovering in the middle of _nowhere_ while you do _nothing_ –”

Rip bristles. “We had no leads, Miss Lance; a situation I am hoping to imminently remedy.”

“By leading us into an obvious trap?!”

“What trap?” Len asks.

“We received a distress signal from the captain of the Acheron, the flagship of the Time Masters,” Gideon says. “She has reported that her ship has suffered a systemic malfunction; as a result, her ship is unable to make a jump back into the timeline, leaving her and her crew stranded in a remote area. She has requested assistance.”

Len can feel his eyebrows going up. “And we care about this chick why?”

“We don't, that is true,” Rip says, but his eyes are avid in a way they haven't been this last week and there's excitement in his voice. “But the Acheron's computer will contain significantly more up-to-date intelligence on Savage's whereabouts, which is _precisely_ what we require to make our next step now that our trail has run cold.”

“So, trap,” Mick grunts.

“ _Obvious_ trap,” Sara agrees.

“They might mean it?” Ray suggests.

“ _Trap_ , man,” Jax stresses. “Motherfucking Flagship of the Time Master fleet is suddenly needing roadside assistance? In the middle of nowhere?” 

“Hardly the middle of nowhere,” Rip says. “Gideon, plot a course to the Acheron’s position in – ah. In deep space.”

“Deep space,” Len says skeptically.

“I didn’t know we could explore the unknown reaches of the universe in the Waverider,” Stein says, his eyes brightening considerably. “You know, I’ve always rather enjoyed tales of space travel.”

“What, exactly, constitutes _deep_ space?” Len asks. He feels like that's an important thing to clarify, even if - like Stein - he's always been a Star Trek fan and thinks it's kind of cool. "As opposed to regular space?"

“A region of space which possesses virtually no astrological phenomena in the vicinity – no local stars, no planets, no meteors –” Stein starts.

“The middle of nowhere,” Len concludes. “It’s a trap.”

“I am _aware_ that it is more than likely a trap. Nevertheless, we will respond to the Acheron's call, board her and have Gideon take the information from the Acheron’s computer before they can spring the trap,” Rip says. “It is a simple matter of –”

“ _Trap_ ,” the entire room choruses. 

"It doesn't _matter_ ," Rip says impatiently. "We have no other choice."

There's a moment of silence as the team all exchange expressions of pain.

Yes, okay, Rip's right, but they don't have to _like_ it.

"We should at least not be obvious about it," Sara says with a sigh. “Maybe not put all our eggs into our obvious trap basket?”

"Miss Lance is correct. Some of us should go and others should stay," Stein says, bouncing a little. "I volunteer to go – we presumably need to do an extra-vehicular docking maneuver? How exciting. Jefferson, would you like to join us?"

"Yeah, no," Jax disagrees. "I can think of – well, literally anything else I'd want to do." 

"If it's a trap, it might makes sense to keep one of you back instead of using you as our powerhouse as usual," Len says. "They might be expecting that. Mick and I can go with the boarding team."

Mick nods his agreement. 

"Then it's settled," Rip says with satisfaction. "Gideon, make the jump in 10 – 9 – 8 –"

Everyone scrambles for their seats, snapping the harnesses into place.

And then, with a now-familiar sickening lurch, they're there. 

Len unbuckles his harness and stands, only to stagger, clapping his hands over his ears. 

It's so _loud_ all of a sudden.

They're hanging in the middle of a vast, dark emptiness, where the only thing to see being the much bigger ship, hanging there in front of them with some sad lights flashing a distress signal, so it should be almost creepily quiet, but instead it’s loud. Len can't explain what it is he's hearing – static? space static? some sort of sudden onset tinnitus? regardless of what it is, it's sounds like some long, infinitely deep note, like the strumming of a contrabass, but magnified a million times, or possibly some infinitely _high_ note, hitting the world’s highest aria at the very edge of his range of hearing, he can't really tell – but whatever it is, it's extremely disorienting.

"Hey, boss, you okay?" Mick is asking, looking concerned.

"Fine," Len says. "Just – time travel side effect. I think." He takes a step forward and staggers, the world going suddenly unsteady under his feet. Mick's hand is at his elbow, steadying him, almost immediately. 

"It sometimes lasts a little longer than usual," Rip says apologetically. "Particularly in long-distance jumps like the one we just took. Nothing to be concerned about; it will undoubtedly fade within a half hour."

"Great," Len says, shaking his head and regretting it immediately. He only manages to make himself even more disoriented and nauseated.

"You're clearly in no condition to join our boarding party, Mr. Snart," Stein says with a frown. "Not until the effects have passed."

"I'm afraid we don't have time to wait," Rip says briskly. "Mr. Jackson, could you accompany us in Mr. Snart's place?"

Jax glances at Len, who nods. The sound isn't as mind-clearingly loud as it was when they first jumped, his brain already working on suppressing his exposure to it, but he knows that his nerves are going to be totally shot as a result – and if this is the trap that they all think it is, he needs to be able to control his twitchy trigger finger.

"Okay," Jax says with a sigh. "I'll go.”

“We’re going to space, Jefferson,” Stein says, beaming. “Look a little excited!”

“You like space travel, huh, Grey?”

“Oh, indeed; when I was a child, I became rather obsessed with it after reading my first issue of ‘Rick Starr: Space Ranger’…”

"Very well; then we’re all agreed," Rip says. "Mr. Snart, Gideon can examine you in the medbay; Mr. Palmer, I leave you in charge of the ship."

"Really? Cool!"

"Miss Lance, _please_ keep an eye on him.”

Sara laughs. “Yeah, will do.”

“Meanwhile, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Stein, Mr. Rory and myself will go to the jump ship. Follow me, gentlemen."

Mick gets up, still looking at Len in concern. "You want me to stay? I can swap with – "

"It's fine," Len says. His ears are still ringing, but Gideon will be able to give him something for the way his stomach is churning. "It'll be good for you to stretch your legs and cool off for a bit. We can discuss the other issue later, when you come back."

Mick makes a face at the thought of that, but nods, conceding that it was necessary. "I'll keep the others safe in the meantime. You should be able to call if you need me, right?"

Len looks out the window - mostly blackness with a few very, very distant stars - and makes a face. "I'd rather not risk pulling a ghost through deep space; it being a total unknown to me here. You focus on protecting the others from when the trap inevitably blows up in their faces. Particularly Jax, who didn't wanna go at all."

"But you _will_ call me if there's a serious problem."

"Sure," Len lies. He's not risking Mick through deep space when he doesn't know what effect vacuum has on ghosts. "You know I won't die without you."

That latter part was sincere.

Mick rolls his eyes and heads out. 

Ray promptly plops himself down in the captain’s seat and starts both pontificating about Star Trek and flirting with a very receptive Kendra, while Sara rolls her eyes at them both – albeit with a secret little smile of amusement at their antics.

Len, meanwhile, goes to the medical bay. The side effect, whatever it is, is starting to fade – he can still hear that same long drawn-out note, which irritatingly enough he still can't tell whether it's low or high, but at least he's starting to feel steadier on his feet regardless.

"I can assist with the nausea, Mr. Snart," Gideon says apologetically. "But your tinnitus – "

"That's fine," Len says. "Without the nausea and dizziness, it's manageable."

"It will, as Captain Hunter said, undoubtedly fade on its own. I would like you to remain for a full examination, if you don't mind. I might be able to find a physical cause – or perhaps assist in reducing the pain from your joints –"

Len chuckles. This isn’t the first time Gideon has implied, heavily, that she could do something about that. "Sure; why not? You can take a look and then we can talk potential treatments – nothing without my consent, though.”

“Certainly not, Mr. Snart,” Gideon replies, sounding almost offended. 

Len shakes his head, sitting down in the chair. “Mick'll be pleased, at least. He’s been on my case to take advantage…" Plus it might be helpful in convincing Mick to ditch this mission already, if he thinks Len's gotten all that he can out of it.

Another thought occurs to him. "Hey, Gideon, can we put a camera on our intrepid explorers before they go out?"

"Certainly, Mr. Snart. I would have to ask their permission first, of course."

"Ask Jax," Len decides. "He'll keep a level head about it and won't be the first one everyone suspects. Unlike Mick."

"Why do you feel the need for a camera, Mr. Snart? If you think Captain Hunter…"

“Nah, not really,” Len says honestly, which somewhat surprises him. “Your Cap’s a bit of a rat, not gonna lie, but he’s a decent guy deep down, and he's definitely sincere about keeping us at full firepower unless he has to do otherwise. I was more thinking that with a camera, we'll be able to observe danger that the others might not be able to warn us about. Say, if they were gagged."

Or dead, but Len really hopes that's not going to happen. Jenna _will_ kill him if he returns Jax to her a ghost – or worse, not at all.

"Very well; I'll ask."

Len nods and relaxes onto the chair, Gideon running her examination rays over him. It’s vaguely hypnotic, especially once the meds kick in and the nausea and dizziness fade away. Even the sound in his ears stops being so disturbing. 

Naturally, he’s in the seat less than fifteen minutes before a fuzzy voice rings out over the ship's intercom.

“ _I’d like to speak to Acting Captain Raymond Palmer_.”

“Oh, fuck,” Len says, feeling almost resigned. Trap, trap, they _knew_ it was a trap... “Gideon?”

Gideon shuts off the scanner she’s using to examine him. “I would recommend you get to the bridge, Mr. Snart.”

“No kidding. Broadcast Ray’s response, will you?”

“—who are you?” Ray is asking.

“ _I’m the man holding your crew hostage_.”

“Of course he is,” Len sighs. “Gideon, what’s actually going on?”

“It appears that Captain Hunter and the others have been captured by time pirates,” Gideon tells him. “The captain is on screen, along with Mr. Jackson and Mr. Rory; Mr. Stein is not in sight, leading me to believe they have kept him in reserve.”

“Their expressions?”

“Captain Hunter appears calm, while Mr. Jackson appears concerned and Mr. Rory appears either annoyed or amused. I believe –”

“ _Captain Palmer_ ,” Rip’s voice rings out over the intercom, cutting Gideon off. “ _I’ve informed Captain Valor here of the fiery retribution you’ll rain down on upon him if we are not released immediately_ –”

Then he grunts. Len assumes someone punched him.

The time pirate's voice sounds again. “ _I’m gonna make this real simple; you surrender, and I’ll drop you off in the time and place of your choosing. If not, I’m gonna blast your captain’s head open_.”

“Uh,” Ray says.

“Gideon, tell me we can raise shields or something,” Len says, hurrying to the bridge.

“ _You don’t know Palmer_ ,” Rip says. “ _And how he survived the ‘Imperiex’ onslaught_.”

An alarm goes off.

“Gideon?” Len shouts.

“Captain Hunter programmed me to execute certain protocols in response to specific keywords,” she replies.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Len says. “He's pretty good at the space battle thing. I’m still gonna need a full list of those keywords and what they mean, though. What’s this one?”

“We will be moving in and preparing to fire. Mr. Snart, there’s a back-up chair in the hallway where you are; the remainder of you on the bridge, strap yourselves in. Prepare to attack.”

Len throws himself at the nearby chair that’s coming out of the wall. “Great,” he says. “My favorite part of Star Trek: where the civilian casualties happen.”

“We’ve fired a warning shot to let them know we mean business,” Gideon announces. 

“Our people are still on that ship, Gideon!” Ray’s voice is still audible through the intercom. “Let’s be sure not to cause any significant injuries.”’

“Gideon, I don’t think firing is the best approach here,” Len says. "Since even I can tell that they're firing _back_."

“I apologize, Mr. Snart, but Captain Hunter’s instructions are very specific.”

The entire ship abruptly heaves and rocks wildly.

“What was that?!” Sara shouts from the bridge.

“The time pirates have successfully hit us. There is now a hull breach in the aft portion of the ship,” Gideon says. “The pirates have taken out our telemetry controls.”

“Oh, great,” Len says.

“Gideon, switch to manual,” Ray orders. 

“What are you doing?” Kendra asks.

“Well, if this is anything like a video game, I’m about to fly a space ship.”

“Oh, _great_ ,” Len groans, but sadly, if there was anyone he'd nominate for flying a ship on the first try, it'd be Ray, so he's not going to object. “Gideon, tell ‘em I’m going to go deal with the hole in the ship.”

“Noted, Mr. Snart.”

“Do what you can to make sure Ray doesn’t get us all killed with his driving, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Snart.”

Ray’s space ship driving is shoddy at best, but Len’s got pretty decent balance; he might stagger and grab at the wall, but he’s making his way to the back. He’s got his gun – maybe he can freeze some ice over the breach, slow it down…

“Gideon, now would be a good time for me to see the camera you gave Jax,” he says.

“In the wall, Mr. Snart.”

There’s a little tablet pad that Len can grab there. It’s playing the image stream from Jax’s shaky button cam.

Rip is just announcing, “A captain never surrenders his ship. Besides, you’ll never catch Captain Palmer – he once outran Kanjar Ro himself.”

“Engaging Kanjar Ro protocol now,” Gideon announces.

“What’s that?” Ray asks from the bridge, his voice fading as Snart makes his way deeper into the ship.

“A holographic projection to mislead the pirates, accompanied by a cloak,” Gideon tells him, her voice also starting to go a bit tinny. Something must be wrong with the electronics back here.

“Very clever, Captain,” the time pirate captain sneers, audible through the camera. “But that won't save you and your ship forever. Throw them in the brig! We’ll find your friends’ bodies – eventually.”

Len finds the room with the breach – it’s a big nasty hole in the wall, starting to suck out all the air and heat. He shoves the tablet into his jacket pocket, pulls out his gun – his lungs are starting to feel tight, probably the lack of air – and hits the giant hole dead-on with a blast of freezing cold that covers it all in ice.

The air pressure in the room immediately stabilizes and he exhales breath in relief. His gun’s low on charge, though, due to his fiddling with it earlier for practice-slash-boredom-relief; this won’t be a workable solution for long. 

“Gideon, anything you can do about this?” he asks.

“I can activate shielding protocols to supplement the work your gun is doing,” she replies, her voice almost inaudible and cut through with static. “Unfortunately, that would also activate the bulkhead doors and would only partially contain the breach.”

Len checks the gun. “Tell me when Ray’s gotten us somewhere safe, then activate.”

“But Mr. Snart –”

“You heard me!”

“Very well. We have now passed the Acheron’s sensor range.”

“Good,” Len says, snapping off his gun and turning to run back to the bridge.

He realizes what the ‘activating the bulkhead doors’ means when he sees the doors in front of him start to slide shut.

“Oh, _crap_ –”

He makes it through one set of doors. 

He doesn’t make it through the second.

“Gideon!”

“I’m sorry –” There’s a burst of static. “– Mr. Snart –” Another. “— will direct as much oxygen –” An ear-splitting screech. “— possible. But –” Another burst of static, longer this time. “— cold.”

Len stares at the door and considers bashing his head in on it.

This is _ridiculous_.

This is – 

This isn’t real. This is a _cliché space horror flick_.

This _cannot_ actually be happening to him. 

Another crackle of static. “— just hold on!” Ray is saying. “Sara –” Silence. “— working on a solution! Gideon says –” There’s another break before he comes back into hearing. “— stay warm and don’t move. We’ll only need –” The rest is garbled and inaudible.

Len groans. 

Well, at least they’re working on trying to save him. 

…at least Gideon is involved in the process.

Len pulls the tablet out of his pocket. There’s still a video stream, but the audio’s cut out, so there’s no sound: Mick, Rip and Jax are in some sort of glass cube, what must be the brig. Mick has a black eye that’s rapidly fading and he’s arguing with Rip about something, all big gestures and using his height to back it up – Rip is jabbing his finger back at Mick’s chest – judging by the position of the camera, Jax is standing a little off from the two of them, presumably watching them fight. 

They’re fine, for now.

Len looks around, biting his lip. Does this count as a situation where he ought to call for Mick? It would leave Rip and Jax alone in the brig of a hostile ship, where the presence of a dead man could prove invaluable to saving their lives, and Len…

Well, he’s mostly just cold right now.

“Gideon, if you can hear me, what are my chances of survival?” he asks. “Repeat a few times; I’m having trouble hearing you guys.”

It takes a few tries for them to get the message through the crackle of static – Len entertains himself by watching his breath freeze and trying to find a good position to curl up under his thankfully warm parka – but eventually Gideon manages to get through, “Over 80% likelihood of rescue before you –” something, something “—run out of air or freeze within –” and then it trails off again.

Len sighs and pulls on his gloves. He’ll give them an hour or so to try to get him out. If his breath starts coming short, he’ll call for Mick, pirates and space travel be damned, and Mick will poltergeist the doors open; no harm, no foul. 

Even Mick won’t be able to complain that Len’s unnecessarily putting his life at risk here. 

Well, yes, he will, but it’s a _calculated_ risk. Len is absolutely certain in Mick’s ability to resolve the pirate situation within the necessary time and still make it back in time to rescue Len should Ray, Kendra, and Sara’s joint efforts fail. 

If only it weren’t so _loud_ …

Or maybe if the stupid endlessly deep/high note _changed pitch_ once in a while, that would be nice. His head would probably explode if it did, trying to adjust yet again, but it might be worthwhile just to have the sound stop ringing endlessly in his ears. He wishes Gideon had been able to fix it. 

Len shakes his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear it. Rip said it ought to fade within half an hour, which _must_ have passed by now – even his internal clock is being drowned out by the noise in his ears, so he can't really tell – but somehow it’s still going strong. 

Well, there's nothing he can do about it. At least he has something to watch to distract himself. 

He picks up the tablet from where he’d set it down and glances at the screen, expecting to see them still arguing in the brig.

Then his jaw drops.

Are those _time wraiths_?

What the _hell_?

Len squints at the screen. Jax’s arms are in the way – he’s waving them frantically – but no, those are _definitely_ time wraiths or, as Mick prefers to call them, time puppies. And they’re zooming in and out of the walls of the brig, making Rip and some other person also dressed up like a Time Master hit the deck repeatedly, Jax is clearly shouting and Mick, well, the time wraiths keep dashing forward to grab at Mick’s arms and legs and nuzzling at them like…

Well, like puppies.

Where did they even _come from_?

On the bright side, the pirates appear to be having a similar degree of panic as a reaction to their presence, judging by the commotion outside the door.

Len can’t help but smile at the screen, seeing Mick point at the door and a couple of time wraiths cheerfully leaping up to go rip the door open for him. His extremities might be slowly freezing, but his chest can’t help but be warm when he looks at Mick, doing what he does best.

God, Mick is so _competent_ ; Len loves watching him in action.

He should ask Gideon if he can keep the button cam…

The noise suddenly changes pitch.

Len drops the tablet, his hands flying to his ears – god, it’s so _loud_ , his body had adjusted so he'd almost managed to forget how _loud_ the sound was; it’s like being on a jet plane, it’s like being near a jackhammer, it _hurts_ , it’s so loud, the noise – no, the _singing_ , it’s goddamn singing, the singing is _so loud_ –

That’s when _it_ comes through the closed first set of bulkhead doors, coming right from where the hull was breached and Len’s air is draining out into the vacuum of empty space. 

Len can’t call it anything but _it_. 

_It’s_ not human, whatever _it_ is; Len’s never seen anything like _it_ before. 

_It_ is – _it’s_ undefinable, that’s what it is. _It’s_ something like a wheel, something like a person, sexless, something like neither of them at all. Every inch of _it_ is glowing, gleaming so bright, so white, that Len desperately wants to look away but can’t, a white like gleaming marble, like fresh snow, like a blank page, but a white so bright that it shines into his eyes like he’s looking straight into an exploding firework, like a thousand explosions all at once, those recordings he’s seen of the fall of the atom bomb, white-white-white, all around. The aura of that light is so bright that it rips holes into the darks of Len’s eyes, leaving shadows, speckling _it_ with what looks in Len’s confused mind like a human eye, covering _it_ with those eyes, eyes more than anything else; hundreds of eyes, thousands of eyes, blue eyes, blue as a summer day’s sky, eyes on every surface of _it_ , on every wheel spoke, every arm, on every feather of the wings made of blazing white flame –

Len falls to his knees.

His eyes are running, wet in agony, his hands are clenched on his ears, his heart is beating triple-time –

And then _it_ speaks, _it_ speaks in the same horrible beautiful tone, infinitely high, infinitely low, a ringing bell so loud, so impossible loud, that sound that feels like it’s ripping Len apart –

_It_ speaks -

And _it_ says –

_“Be not afraid.”_


	35. 34

“What the fuck,” Len moans. “What the _fuck_ , the _fuck_ , the _flying fuck_ –” 

The creature just hovers there, patiently, waiting for Len to finish.

“What the ever-lasting _fuck_ ,” Len finally concludes, as effusively as he can manage to say the word. Nothing else really conveys his feelings right now. 

“ _Was that a question_?”

It isn’t really words. It's – it's like watching those television shows about fake geniuses, all math and geometrical shapes floating in space and sound, like every blueprint Len’s ever looked at, every electric circuit he’s ever deconstructed, the complex shape of every molecule he happened to see a model of. 

It’s Pythagoras, and Euler, and Feuerbach, Pascal and Fermat and Morley.

And yet –

It’s also words. 

“To specify, what the fuck _are_ you?” Len asks, even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. Sky-blue eyes, wings, endless singing…

Len might not be all that up to date on his religious studies, but he’s not _dumb_.

_And behold, a tempest came from the north, a huge cloud and a flaming fire with a brightness from it – and they bore the likeness of living beings, their appearance like fiery coals, burning like firebrands; they were going among the living beings, and there was a brightness to the fire and from the fire came forth lightening –_

Malachim, his mother called them. Messengers. 

_Angels._

Like Len was saying: What. The. _Fuck_. 

“ _I am of the dead_ ,” the creature says, the numbers and letters and figures of algebra spilling off its tongue. 

Len blinks.

Wait.

_What?_

“You’re a _ghost_?!” he yelps, swiping at his still-streaming eyes. He has _got_ to have misheard that, and yet he's absolutely certain he hasn't. “Of _what_?!”

“ _I am that which lives after the death of a star_.”

Len gapes at it.

“ _I was here, once_ ,” it says. “ _Many years before your Earth emerged from the dust_.”

“Holy _crap_ ,” Len says. “ _And they did not turn as they walked_ – okay, yes, that nonsense finally makes sense – light emitting in all direction – well, it makes sense if you’re taking about a _star_. Sorry, the _ghost_ of a star. The fuck. I just…the _fuck_? I didn’t even know stars _could_ have ghosts.”

That still makes no damn sense.

One part of it does, though, making perfect sense despite it all: if the angel is in fact a ghost, then that’s why Len can hear its singing, that’s why Len can _understand_ it when it speaks.

The curse of Babel holds no sway over the dead. Apparently that applies to non-human languages, too. 

But still, Len reiterates, in case he hasn't made his feelings on the matter utterly clear: _what the fuck_.

Though, actually –

“Uh. Should I stop cursing?”

“ _Your forefather Ezekiel had much the same reaction_ ,” the angel observes in a tone laden with trigonometry. “ _Mostly profanity_.”

“Well, in that case, at least I’m carrying on with tradition,” Len mutters, lifting his hands to his face and rubbing at his eyes some more. He’s seriously starting to wonder if he’s hallucinating, but the ringing in his head is as loud as ever, he’s pretty sure he’s still crying, and he likes to think he doesn’t have the imagination to hallucinate something like _this_. Not in a million years of terrible television and maybe a bad drug trip or five. “Fuck. What am I _doing_ here?”

It's a metaphorical question, mostly about why in the world Len is still inflicting this stupid space voyage with its increasingly terrible events on himself, but the angel decides to answer anyway.

“ _You are always welcome among the hosts of heaven_.”

“Thanks,” Len says dryly. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” 

He shakes his head. Angels he doesn't know what to do with, but ghosts? Ghosts are his stock in trade, quite literally. It's just another ghost, Len, he tells himself. Treat it like you would any other ghost. Any other ghost that's giant and shining so bright your eyes are burning and so overwhelmingly loud you can barely think and - damnit, it's _just a ghost_ , and anyway you hate authority, remember? You can do this. 

He clears his throat and squares his shoulders and focuses on the angel, despite the pain it causes. “So, _malach_ ," he says, "you got any message for me?”

“ _You walk a dangerous road: what you fear most to lose, you will lose five times over before the end – to another, to yourself, to anger, to fear, and to duty. Remember yourself, and all may be well._ ”

“…is that a message or a fortune cookie?”

“ _A message_ ,” it says. Trigonometry again. “ _Though I understand how you might have been mistaken_.”

Len scowls at it. Is trigonometry _sarcasm_? “Stop having a sense of humor. How do you even know what a fortune cookie is, anyway?”

“ _We sing the praises of all of life’s variety_.”

“Wait, that ringing in my ears this whole time has been _gossip_?”

“ _That is not the word we would choose_.”

“Yeah, I _bet_ it’s not. Why are you giving me this message, anyway? I don’t warrant getting my own scroll filled with lamentation and woe or something like that?”

“ _You came to me_ ,” the angel points out. “ _Not I to you_.”

“…right. So, what, that’s really it? You’re going with ‘know thyself’, like every Disney movie before you?”

“ _You already know what you must do_.”

“Do I? Do I really? Are you sure about that?”

“ _You continue the work which began before you and which will continue after you_ ,” it speaks, and Len has visions in his eyes of impossible sets, the nondenumberability of the continuum, which he’s pretty sure isn’t even a real thing. He’s starting to get concerned that he’ll solve P versus NP if he keeps listening too long. “ _Your burden is great, but it is your right to carry it._ ”

“You do know I’m a terrible Jew, right?” Len is compelled to ask. “I kill people – well, not so much anymore but –”

“ _Be well_ ,” the angel says. “ _Go forth, and face your challenge_.”

“Uh, okay? I’ll do that. While puzzling out what you mean, because you literally said _nothing_ that made any sense –” 

The angel moves, and the terrible endless note of his song changes with him. 

Len stops talking. His eyes are tearing up again. 

“ _Go forth_ ,” the angel says again. “ _And when you go, know me thus_.”

And then it says its name, long and indeterminable and magnificent, and Len may or may not be shaking when it’s done. 

He may or may not be _sane_ when it’s done. He’s a bit iffy on a lot of things right now. 

With that, and with no good-bye, it leaves, drifting away through the walls.

The ghost of a star.

_The fuck._

“— Snart! _Snart_! Are you okay in there?!”

Someone is yelling his name.

Len blinks.

“I’m fine,” he says, and gets up from his knees. He can still hear the singing, but it’s faded into the background. “I’m…I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.” That’s Kendra, standing by the still-closed door. “Gideon’s sensors all went absolutely crazy; she thinks we stumbled into some dark matter or something, and she said she didn’t know how it would affect you if it got through the breach in the hull.”

“I’m fine,” Len repeats. Saying it enough times would make it true. “Did you figure out how to get me out?”

“Yeah, Ray’s outside in his suit right now, repairing the breach. Once the breach is sealed, Gideon will be able to open the door.”

“Is his suit safe for space?”

“Yes, but not for very long. Sara’s got him on a rope to keep him from drifting off if he passes out. She’s keeping him talking – Gideon, can you play the intercom to Snart?”

“— keep going,” Sara is saying. “I’m giving you one more minute, then you’re coming in whether you like it or not – you can always refill on air and go back out; Snart’s a big boy, he can hold his breath for a bit longer –”

“No, gimme a lil longer – I’ve got it!” Ray slurs over the intercom. “I got it! It's sealed!”

“Oh thank god. Pulling you in now; I don't like how your vital signs are dropping on the monitor.”

“Yeah…thanks, buddy…”

“Pull him in _now_ ,” Kendra exclaims. 

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him! Gideon, can you open the bulkhead now?”

“Can do, Miss Lance.” 

The bulkhead doors slide open.

Len blinks at them. 

He can leave.

Yep.

Leave. Leaving. Exiting. Moving out of here any time he likes. 

He can –

Okay, apparently he’s still freaking out a bit. 

Freaking out a _lot_ , actually.

You know what? Len's just going to stop thinking about this. It's over, he survived, story's ended. 

Okay. He can do this. 

He wipes at his face, makes sure that the only sign of the tears is the slight reddishness of his eyes, and walks out.

Kendra’s waiting outside, her eyes glued to another of Gideon’s tablets; she’s no doubt watching Ray’s progress.

“You should ask him out,” Len suggests. “Sometime _after_ he gets out of the medical bay. Strike while he's disoriented; he'll be forced to admit what we all know is true."

Kendra flashes a quick grin his way before heading down the hallway towards the airlock. "You go to the medical bay, too," she calls over her shoulder. "Hypothermia is a thing, Captain Cold."

Len rolls his eyes, but he does start walking to the medical bay, taking a quick detour to wash his face clean. His hands are still shaking, he notices.

He shoves them into his pockets.

Maybe he'll ask Gideon for an anti-anxiety pill, or something else she can recommend for shock. Something to get him through the evening, so he can freak out some more in private.

Len's about halfway to the medical bay when he hears Mick's familiar bellow.

He immediately detours in that direction. Mick. Mick is good. He definitely needs to see Mick and remind himself that Mick is here. That they're both here and safe.

It is _so far_ past time for them to go home, where they belong.

He makes it to the bridge. 

"You recklessly endangered the whole team!" Rip is shouting.

"I got us out of there!" Mick roars in return. "What were you doing, other than being insulting?"

"I convinced Captain Baxter to give us the information freely!"

"Yeah, _after_ I defeated the time pirates for you!"

"You nearly got us all killed!"

"I got us _out_ ," Mick growls. "I stopped them from beating Jax –"

"You sold us out to those _monsters_!"

"The puppies are _harmless_ –"

"They ripped someone out of the time stream! And you proposed to _let_ them on board the Waverider – no, not just that, you go so far as to offer to give them _free rein_ of it!"

Mick crosses his arms, which is as good as an admission. 

"You did _what_?" Sara exclaims. "Seriously, Mick, what the hell? I _saw_ those things on screen –"

"It's fine," he says. 

"You sold our ship to _time wraiths_ , and you say it's _fine_?!"

"I promised 'em use of the ship at one point in the future," Mick snaps. "During the course of this journey, which is a pretty limited promise."

"The course of this journey?" Len echoes.

Mick's eyes flicker to him, then away. Guiltily. 

"What does that mean?" Len asks, his eyes narrowing, suspicion crawling up the back of his spine. 

"I promised 'em we would keep going with the mission," Mick confesses.

"You _what_?!"

"That _isn't_ the problem," Rip snaps. "The problem is your willingness to single-handedly promise the services of my ship - of our crew – and to do so _without_ our consent –"

“You put us all in danger –” Sara adds.

“Not only us, but our very _mission_ –”

"I need to talk to my partner," Len interrupts. His voice is cold, he notices. He's not sure when it got that way, but it gets him the attention he needs. "Privately. Can we settle down somewhere?"

"Yes," Rip says. "I know a place. Gideon, go to the following coordinates."

Len doesn’t actually remember sitting down or strapping himself in; a second later, and Rip’s bringing them down to land and opening the door.

Mick stomps out.

“I trust, Mr. Snart, that you will take care of this problem,” Rip says coolly to Len as Len follows him. “After all, Mr. Rory’s promises and obligations are his alone.”

“Don’t worry,” Len says, not really listening. “I’ll deal with this. He’s my partner.”

This is something they need to get out between the two of them – something that should be private in a way the Waverider can never be. This has been brewing for a while: Len’s paranoia, Mick’s devotion to this mission; Mick’s dreams, Len’s fears…

Yes, they need to talk.

The place Rip selected is a forest so darkly lit that the trees almost appear blue in the moonlight.

Mick's pacing back and forth.

"You promised to keep going," Len starts, keeping his voice level. "You _promised_ a bunch of time wraiths that we would keep on this godforsaken fuckhead mission -"

"Yeah, I did!" Mick bursts out. "I did, and I'm not sorry for it! The only bit of it I'm sorry about is not checking in with you first, but I don't regret having promised it!"

"We could have gone _home_ ," Len says, very steadily. He wants to go home. He wants all of this to be a nightmare. He wants to go _home_. 

"Sometimes it ain't about what you want," Mick says angrily. "Sometimes it's about what I do. What I _need_ to do. The time puppies – seeing them felt _right_. It _was_ right. Damnit, Lenny, I don't know why you're having so much trouble with this."

"Because I nearly _lost_ you," Len bursts out, losing his equilibrium almost immediately; far too fast, far too fast. What’s wrong with him? "I nearly – you –"

"Is this about being trapped by Savage? Because we'll know what to look for, going forward –"

"It's that, yes; you getting nearly eaten, and then you get nearly trapped, and then it's that goddamn necromancer _hunting_ us -"

"Wait, what?" Mick says. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Mick snaps. "Sounds like you lying _yet again_ about something that threatens your life – keeping me in the dark –"

"He wanted _you_!" Len snarls. "You! Not me! He wanted to take you away, and you were so goddamn high you might've let him!"

Mick rocks back as if Len'd slapped him. "I would think you'd know me better than that," he says, and he's hurt, Len can hear that he's hurt, but it's not penetrating through the terror that's got Len locked up firm. Oh, he can talk, he can act; he's taught himself that much. But Len never taught himself not to lash out when _he's_ hurt, when _he's_ scared – not about Mick. Lisa, yes; himself, yes; but never Mick. He's never been scared for Mick, not like this – not since Cabrera, not since he was a child crying because of the broken glass a bottle had shattered over his head. 

"This trip is filled with firsts," Len finds himself saying, instead of apologizing like he knows he should be doing right now. "Why should that be any different? After all, you did promise the whole goddamn crew to ferry around some time wraiths; that's clearly your priority right now!"

"I deserve better than that from you," Mick says. "After thirty years at your side, I at least deserve the benefit of the goddamn doubt. Or is it just that I never wanted anything bad enough to fight you over it, huh? Are we only partners when it's _convenient_ for you to give in?"

"You know that's not true," Len says. 

"Do I? You're the one with the power, Len; you know it, I know it -- "

"You know that doesn't matter to me!"

"Doesn't it?" Mick asks, his voice low and ugly.

"I don't _order_ you – "

"You did in 2046."

"To save you from Him!" Len shouts. "The _only_ thing I've ever wanted was for us to be together – safe, and together, and not beset by – by – by mediums, and necromancers, and fucking _angels_ –"

"Angels?! What the fuck are – you know what, I don’t even care. What _else_ haven't you been telling me?"

"It happened just now," Len protests, back on the defensive. "Just now, when I was repairing the breach in the hull -"

"Damnit, Len, I told you to _call_ me when you got into trouble!"

"I took a calculated risk –"

"That ended up with angels, apparently!"

"I couldn't have known that going in."

"That's why we face these things _together_ ," Mick exclaims. "That's the whole point – together forever, richer and poorer, remember that? I know it's the Christian version, but it's the same concept in the end. So why are you always leaving me out of everything?"

"I don't _mean_ to," Len says miserably. "I don't – "

"But you're not going to change it, either," Mick says, crossing his arms. "Fuck you, Lenny."

"I can't apologize for doing what I can to protect you," Len says. "Same as you've always done for me."

"Yeah, one difference," Mick says. "I'm _dead_. You ain’t."

"I don't _care_ about that. You can _have_ my life, you know that; you can have _all_ of it if you want it – "

"What I want is for you to treat me with some goddamn respect!" Mick roars.

"I do!" Len yells back. "Is this about the trip? Is that what you want? Damnit, fine, we'll keep going on the trip, we'll complete the mission, we'll even ferry around your stupid fucking time puppies – "

"What I _want_ ," Mick says, very quietly, "is for my husband to get his head out of his goddamn ass."

And then he vanishes.

Oh, he's still there; he can't hide from Len. But for the first time in years, in literally decades, Mick gathers his power into himself and pulls himself off the visible plane.

"Fine," Len says. "Have it your way. Go ahead and _sulk_ ; see if I care."

He turns and stomps back towards the Waverider. This wasn't how today was supposed to end.

Mick trails after him, a cold, forbidding presence making clear that his company should not be mistaken for forgiveness.

Len's gotten himself back under control once he reaches the ship, pulled back his walk to more of a purposeful stroll, but he knows his face is still black and unyielding.

Rip is standing by the entrance. "Is it done?" he asks.

"Yeah," Len says. "Good to go."

"I must admit, I underestimated you," Rip says. "Though perhaps I shouldn't have. Your reputation has always been formidable..."

Len has no idea what Rip's blabbering on about now. He's just gotten into a serious fight with his husband and best friend, he's met an angel and nearly lost his mind, he nearly froze to death – in short, today is a day he would much rather have just not happened.

He's not in the mood to listen to bullshit, so he doesn't. He just walks straight to his room.

Mick doesn't follow, opting to go haunt the bay or something like that. Probably checking the breach to come yell at Len tomorrow about risking his life to close it, Len thinks uncharitably as he sets his gun to charge. He knows it's wrong, knows Mick isn’t like that, but Len's still buried so deep behind a layer of ice, he can't seem to bring himself to care. It occurs to him that he might still be in shock.

Whatever. They'll talk about it tomorrow, when they're both calmer. Mick will understand.

It'll be fine.

When Len wakes up the next day, he discovers it is most emphatically not fine.

Mick is avoiding him. Oh, he's on board, invisible; there's nowhere else he could go. But he's definitely avoiding Len, and Len has the disadvantage of not being able to float through walls.

Also, Rip keeps shooting Len knowing looks like they’re both in the know about something (Len's not sure why) and everyone else seems really creeped out by him. Even Sara, who is continuously drawn to him, seems to remember herself halfway through each time and skitter away.

Only Jax seems normal. 

Len thinks about asking him to find out what's going on, but he can't seem to bring himself to. It probably doesn't matter. Nothing really feels like it matters.

Nothing really feels _real_. 

Also, Kendra is being haunted.

The shadow at her feet has grown into a shade. Len can't see it yet – it's _very_ faint, and Len's not inclined to give it power when it seems to be gaining by itself – but he has his suspicions.

He should mention that to Kendra.

He – doesn't.

Len drifts through the next day, not really paying attention to anything; it's not a problem, since nothing really happens. Mostly Rip working with Jax on incorporating the Acheron's data into Gideon's computers, and everyone else avoiding Len.

Even Mick. 

Mick's presence is curled up in the corner, next to the gun Len gave him.

Len gives him a wide berth. It's what he seems to want.

Mick probably has enough life now to make it on his own, Len reflects. He could leave if he wanted to. 

He could pass on, even.

Has he been staying for Len? Has Len been keeping him here, instead of going somewhere better? 

Might Mick be considering that option now?

Len does his best not to think about it. 

"Mr. Snart," Stein starts at one point. "Might we discuss..?"

Len stares at him.

"Never mind," Stein says, and skitters away.

Weird. 

Well, maybe Stein gets like that sometimes; Len doesn't know him as well as he knows Jax. Stein was Ronnie's partner, to start; more Team Flash adjacent than really part of Len’s crew.

Close enough, he supposes.

"Hey, Snart," Sara says. 

Len looks at her.

"How could you..." she pauses, shakes her head. "No, you know what? Never mind. What’s done is done. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Len says. It's so obvious a lie he doesn't bother to try to make it convincing.

"Uh- _huh_. Listen, I know you and Mick..."

"I don't want to talk about it." Len meant that to be sharp, but it mostly comes out resigned. That's probably why Sara doesn't leave.

"How long did you two know each other?" she asks.

"We met when I was – not yet fourteen. Juvie. He saved my life."

"Wow. I didn’t realize…I mean. That's – that's a long time. You must have been – close."

Len nods. "We were," he says unhappily, looking over at the cold spot that's Mick these days.

Sara reaches out for his hand. "Must've been tough," she says, giving it a squeeze.

Len looks at her, slightly puzzled. What was tough? Being stupid and pissing Mick off? Being paranoid and untrusting? Being a bad husband? Because those weren't tough at all. They were all too easy. It's so easy to be bad. So easy to slip into being - his dad. 

She must mean the fight.

"Wasn't easy," Len finally agrees. "But – I think – it had to be done."

It's out there, in the air, now. Mick knows what Len is, inside and out, his weaknesses as well as his strengths; if he wants to pass on now, he can. He can do what's best for him. Len's always wanted what's best for him. 

"Doesn't mean I wanted it," he adds, eyes still fixed on that cold spot. "Didn't want it at all. But sometimes, you've got no choice but to clear the air."

"I can't say I understand," Sara says. "Or agree. But, you know, you're still here. I'm here for you if you need me."

"I'm not really the touchy-feely type," Len says, extracting his hand from hers. "But thanks. I appreciate it. Really."

She nods, and retreats.

Leaving Len alone with a cold spot and dark thoughts.


	36. 35

It turns out that Rip wants to go play detective in a small town in 1950s Oregon, where a handful of people have been murdered.

“Serial killing doesn’t exactly sound like Savage’s MO,” Kendra says doubtfully. She’s holding hands with Ray. The shade is lurking at her heels.

Len is cleaning his gun for the fifteenth time. 

He can’t seem to stop doing it. 

Better than staring at still-invisible Mick like a creep. _Again_. 

“The killer appears to be an expert with knives, like Savage, and historically he was seen around this area,” Rip says. “Clearly we have to assume that Savage has a larger, more nefarious plan – but since we’ve jumped back in time, Savage isn’t expecting us, and he won't recognize our faces.”

“What’s the plan to find him?” Sara asks, crossing her arms. She looks skeptical, but interested.

“Investigating the murders, of course.”

“Of course,” Jax mumbles. “Should've guessed. And what, exactly, will we be doing as part of this investigation?”

“It appears a local piano teacher was murdered – her home is on the market now –”

“Kendra and I can take that,” Ray says. “We can be a newly married couple, looking to move in.”

He beams at her. She beams at him.

“Check the laws first,” Len says, not looking up from his gun.

“What?”

“ _Loving_ ain’t till 1967.”

Silence.

Len looks up.

Everyone is looking at him, vaguely mystified expressions on their faces.

“Laws against miscegenation?” Len asks. “Black people and white people not being allowed to marry?”

“Ah, yes,” Rip says, blinking. “Excellent point. As it happens, Oregon repealed such laws in, ah, Gideon…?” 

“1951, Captain.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a history buff, Snart,” Ray says, smiling at him.

Len stares at him. “My mom was black, my dad was white, and I’m forty,” he says. “I’ll let you do the math on why I might’ve had some information on the subject yourself, genius.”

“Oh. Uh. I mean…I mean, I _didn’t_ mean…”

Kendra squeezes his hand. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. This is 1958, after all, a good seven years after it was allowed. And isn’t Oregon supposed to be progressive?”

Len snorts. 

“You’re being really optimistic,” Jax says, nodding in agreement with Len's judgment. “But sure, you get the house and start poking around the neighborhood. What about the rest of us?”

“The sanitarium lost a doctor,” Rip says. “I was thinking Professor Stein could substitute; with Miss Lance as his nurse.”

“Nothing I like better than dressing up like a nurse,” Sara says innocently.

Jax snickers.

“And Mr. Jackson is the perfect age to mingle with the other teenagers in town to find out about the three teenagers who went missing a week before the murders began.”

“Gideon,” Jax says. “What _exactly_ is the white population percentage of this town?”

“It is currently 91% white, Mr. Jackson.”

“Right. And how many of the rest of ‘em are in service positions, like maid and whatnot?”

“Most, Mr. Jackson.”

“Yeeeeeah, I thought so. You’d be better off sending Sara in age appropriate gear.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Rip says. “Surely some of the teenagers must be progressive.”

Jax doesn’t seem that convinced, but he nods.

“And, finally, Mr. Snart and I will be FBI agents investigating the murders,” Rip finishes with a flourish.

Len processes this for a moment before speaking. “So what you’re saying is that you’ve gone mad.”

Rip frowns at him.

Len sighs. “Ray ought to be the FBI guy; he’s practically out of central casting for it. He’s tall, white, about the right age, and he’s got a fairly standard upper middle-class accent; it makes a hell of a lot more sense than the FBI hiring a Brit and a slum kid.” 

He nods at Stein. “Grey here ought to rent the house for him and his daughter, Sara; Stein as an old white guy widower will get a lot more friendly neighborhood attention from gossipy ladies trying to find out his backstory than a mixed-race couple, who the ladies will feel socially obligated to snub. As for Sara, she can infiltrate the teens – she’s only in her mid-twenties –”

“Late twenties, but thanks,” Sara interjects.

“– and we can dress her down to teenager pretty easy,” Len continues. “Pretty new white girl makes a lot more sense to get to a group of white 1950s teens than Jax.”

“And the sanitarium?” Jax asks, nodding. 

“Rip and you, Jax – Rip as a doc, since people find a British accent automatically authoritative, and Jax as a cleaner, since that’s a great way to snoop around unseen. Meanwhile, I can work my way through the town’s underclass and learn what I can that way. And Kendra should monitor from the Waverider, since we don’t want to tip off Savage that we’re here and he can sense her. Am I the only one who remembers that he can sense her?”

“Your points are – interesting, but I like my plan better, Mr. Snart,” Rip says. 

“I’m happy to take the risk,” Kendra says, sounding a bit stiff. She’s not looking at Len. “I’m sure Ray and I can make it through just fine.”

“Uh, same,” Ray says, though he does look a little wistful at the thought of being an FBI agent.

“I’m with the boss,” Jax says, nodding at Len. “I don’t mind doing some cleaning –”

“In this case, I’m afraid I must concur with Captain Hunter,” Stein says quickly. “His plan seems perfectly acceptable.”

“His plans haven’t worked thus far,” Len points out.

“Neither have yours,” Sara mutters. “Sorry, Leonard; I think the majority’s with Rip this time.”

Len considers wondering what happened to make the change, but finds he doesn’t care enough to pursue it. 

He glances back at the cold spot in the side of the room, then pulls his eyes away by force. 

Maybe he can clean his gun again.

“Well, now that it’s settled,” Rip says, smiling. “Let’s split up.”

Len goes out with all the others. Ghosts drift up to him, looking concerned, and then dash away. It’s a bit weird; normally ghosts flock _towards_ him. 

One – a nice girl named Loraine, who says she's from the Siletz tribe – makes a point to stay, saying, "You are too cold to be alone: you will freeze that way."

"It's Oregon," Len objects. "In the _spring_."

"Why, so it is," Rip says, blinking at him. "Is that relevant?"

Len ignores him and looks out the window.

"I for one am pleased," Rip announces. 

Len doesn't turn back to look at him.

"I have been hoping to have a chance to work together with you – as partners –"

"I only have one partner," Len says. 

"I – well, yes, of course. I just meant –"

"Think that's the sheriff's place," Len says, nodding at it. He gets that Rip wants to be friends, and normally he wouldn't mind, but right now he's having some trouble focusing on anything. At all. 

He might still be in shock, he doesn't know. He forgot to get Gideon to test it. 

They get out of the car and Rip goes to sweet-talk the sheriff into handing over his files – insofar as they exist. The sheriff is basically useless, for that matter.

Len tries not to talk, but then Rip calls them partners again and asks him a direct question. He can't get out of answering without blowing their cover, and he's not willing to do that.

Though that may have done the job of blowing their cover all by itself, Len thinks, watching the sheriff's piggy little eyes narrow in suspicion. A Brit in the FBI, that's weird enough, but a lower class drawl like the one Len has?

Classism is as alive and well as racism in the good ole 1950s. Not to mention a solid helping of xenophobia, it being right around McCarthy's time.

They _really_ should've sent Ray. 

But at least the sheriff gives them his files, which is good. Maybe Len didn't blow it as bad as he thought he did. 

Weird: he's usually better at reading people than that. 

Whatever.

He wonders what Mick is doing, back on the ship.

He wonders if the handgun Rip gave him to carry needs cleaning.

They reconvene at the Waverider. Jax reports some success with a girl who'd been present at the original disappearance, who's agreed to go out on a date with him – also good. Jax has some serious game when he puts his mind to it, it seems. 

Len will need to tease him about having non-Wally-approved flings, at some point. When he remembers why that would be funny.

Stein reports that nothing has come up at the sanitarium, except for Sara's libido as regards one of the nurses – yet more good news.

Len's starting to suspect that they're setting themselves up for something really bad, all this good news they're getting.

"Savage gave us a casserole!" Ray exclaims, bursting onto the Waverider with Kendra shortly behind him.

"Y'know, that was really not the bad news I was expecting," Len comments, only to realize there's no one to say it to. Mick is on the other side of the room, and Loraine is outside, standing guard for him.

"I don't think 'casserole' the word you're looking for, Ray," Jax says.

Ray shoves a casserole dish into his hands.

"Or maybe it is." Jax sniffs at it. "Hold up, is this _tuna fish_?"

"It's tuna surprise."

"...have you taken several bites of it?"

Ray shrugs unapologetically. "Say what you will about Savage, he's good at making tuna surprise."

"He's also good at making people disappear," Sara says. Len's not sure when she came aboard. "That's the only thing I've found in the files so far."

"He's not the only one good at making people disappear," Kendra says testily. 

Everyone looks awkward when she says that, for some reason, except for Jax, who's looking around the room with a puzzled frown. 

"What?" she says. "Are we not going to talk about it? Are we not going to mention how –"

"Kendra," Ray says.

She looks at him.

"Savage first, maybe."

Kendra glares at him for a second, then deflates. "Yeah, I guess so." 

"Let me be clear – Savage came to your house," Rip says. "He _undoubtedly_ recognized you, Ms. Saunders -"

"He was surprised I wasn't Carter," Ray confirms.

"– and then what?" 

"He invited us to a soiree at his place this evening," Kendra says.

"Well, that's – something," Stein says, blinking. "Another trap, I presume?"

"An opportunity," Rip corrects.

"That's what you said about the spaceship," Len says, not without bitterness. "Look how that turned out."

Everyone looks awkward again. 

"At any rate, Savage will not be able to attack you while in front of all of his guests," Rip says quickly. "Moreover, he will be occupied with hosting the soiree itself, meaning that Professor Stein and Miss Lance will be able to search the secret wing of the sanitarium."

"Secret wing?" Len echoes.

"Where Savage does experiments on dangerous patients, apparently," Sara says, drifting over to stand by Len again. "Woo-hoo, 1950s medical ethics oversight – or lack thereof."

Len nods. Seems convenient, but sure, why not? They're in the creepy 50s.

"In the meantime, I can use my suit to search Savage's house for the dagger," Ray says. "While he thinks we're mingling."

"What do you think about that, Leonard?" Sara asks, almost too loudly, putting a hand on his shoulder almost pointedly. 

Len blinks up at her. "I think if it's a party hosted at Savage's house in a small town, he'll know most of them and there won't be enough people to hide the fact that Ray's disappeared."

Ray and Kendra look ready to object.

"But if Savage is as disgustingly in love with Kendra as all that, he won't notice Ray making his excuses for a long time."

"So you're in favor?" Rip asks.

Len shrugs. 

There's a pulse of cold air in the room. It almost feels like – concern. 

"Really?" Rip sounds skeptical. "No other critiques or concerns?"

Sure, Len's got concerns. But they're probably not going to listen, anyway, and what does it matter?

He still feels so cold and detached from it all.

"I'm taking Betty out tonight," Jax says. "We'll go driving; I'll try to ask a few questions." 

That, at least, gets something to move in Len's brain. "Be careful," he says. "Racists."

"I'll take care," Jax promises, but he doesn't seem that worried.

"Pretty sure the Sheriff pegged me as mixed," Len says. "Said some nasty words as Rip and I were leaving –" Technically, _after_ they'd left; Loraine had reported it from another ghost in the area. "Between that and Kendra's appearance at the soiree, they're gonna be riled up to start with even before you take the pretty white cheerleader out. _Be careful_."

Jax frowns. "Okay, boss. I'll be super careful."

The groups head out – Kendra and Ray in their best 50s fashion, Stein and Sara in their scrubs, Jax in his most polished 50s high-school cool. Rip and Len stay behind. 

Even Mick's presence goes – somewhere.

Len doesn't think he'll go far. Mick never much liked the 50s the first time around. 

"Mr. Snart, I must say, I've noticed a marked change in your behavior of late," Rip says. "Since, ah..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Naturally. However, your more active participation is to be desired –"

"Even when I disagree with your stupid plans?" Len inquires.

That ends that attempt at conversation pretty quickly.

They end up sitting in silence for an hour until suddenly it all goes wrong.

Ray nearly gets caught exploring Savage's room, only hiding away at the last second.

Savage gets called away from party to go back to the sanitarium, forcing them to take the Waverider to the back of the building to help Stein and Sara evacuate.

And just after they’ve grabbed them, even as the Waverider is rising back up –

"Mr. Jackson has sent a distress call," Gideon announces.

"Get us there," Rip orders.

They find a girl, slashed up and bleeding.

"Dear god," Stein says, kneeling behind her. "We have to get her to Gideon –"

"It was Tommy," she rasps. "He was – he was nuts. His eyes were all white. He waved his hand at me, and this happened – he didn't even touch me –"

"Get her inside," Len says, feeling even colder than before, fear starting to make its way through the shield of numbness he’s been hiding behind. "We need to get more intel. Gideon!"

Gideon is able to sedate the girl and then patch her up. "Captain Hunter," Gideon says, her healing rays running over the girl's body. "These lacerations were not made by knives."

"Indeed not," Rip says. "But what? Talons, perhaps?"

"They do not match any penetrative force I have seen before," Gideon says. "Her skin appears less like it was penetrated by a knife and more as though it was simply ripped apart, like a piece of paper."

"That's not what's important," Len says. He knows what it is: a poltergeist's attack. Yet how could her boyfriend, assuming he was recently deceased, have become so powerful in so short a time? And what is Savage's angle here? "We need to find Jax."

"And Savage," Kendra says, coming onto the ship, Ray behind her. "We found the dagger in Savage's house. I have it in my purse - we're back in business."

"We need to proceed on two fronts, then," Stein says. "Locate Jefferson, and end Savage."

"We can't just attack him," Ray says. "He's popular here. Not to mention his skill with knives –"

"We should target his weaknesses," Kendra says firmly. "Like – me."

"Wait, what?" Sara says. "No!"

"He wants me; he always has. I can use that to get close –"

"Then he'll kill you," Ray says anxiously. The shade at Kendra's feet stirs and reaches for Kendra in similar concern.

Kendra glares at Ray, still unaware of the shade. "Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. I can do this, Ray. Our relationship has no effect on –"

"But –"

"This is my decision, and it is final –" Kendra starts.

"Are you dumb or just suicidal?" Len asks wonderingly.

"What did you say?!" Kendra exclaims.

"He's worried for you," Len says. "It's reasonable, given that you'll be going up alone against an expert in close combat and knife-fighting – something you are definitely _not_ an expert in, unless barista training has gotten a lot more intense since the last time I checked."

"It doesn't change the fact that I have to be the one to kill him –"

"Yeah, and doing it alone has been how you and loverboy managed very successfully to die every time you tried anything," Len points out. "Take the goddamn backup; that's all he's offering."

"I can do it alone!"

Len stares at her. Is this what he sounds like when he insists he knows best to Mick? If so, he totally understands why Mick's pissed at him.

"So, what, your _pride_ is good enough reason to risk death?" he asks.

"I'm tired of everyone assuming I can't do it," she snaps. "I'm tired of putting _other_ people in danger to deal with a problem only I can solve. If Ray can't support me because we happen to be dating –"

The still-half-formed ghost at her feet wavers anxiously. It clearly also sides with Ray.

Len groans. "The goal here is to _win_ ," he stresses. "By whatever means we can. Even assuming that you can do it alone, what's the harm in winning by an overwhelming margin? Best case scenario, however unlikely, Ray watches and applauds."

Kendra presses her lips together. "Unlikely? You don't think I can do it."

"No offense meant, but you've never killed anyone before –"

"No, that's _your_ area of expertise," she spits. 

Len's eyebrows go up in surprise. He doesn't think he deserves that. "Well - yeah," he says. "I've never hidden my past. Sara's the assassin, but I've killed my fair share."

"At least Sara didn't betray the ones she claims to love," Kendra says, crossing her arms.

"Uh," Sara says. "Technically –"

"I don't do that," Len says, staring at Kendra. "If you're in, you're in; I don't turn on my crews." Well, unless they turn on him first and want out, anyway.

"Oh, no, you don't turn on your crews," Kendra says. "Just your _partner_." 

" _What?!_ "

"And boy am I happy he did," Jax's voice says from the door to the Waverider.

"Jefferson!" Stein exclaims, and rushes over to embrace him. "We were so worried – we thought Savage had you!"

"He did," Jax says grimly. "The sheriff was working with him – he grabbed me and brought me in. He did something – Savage, I mean – he did something to the other boys – he makes them like they're dead –"

" _Like_ they're dead?" Len asks, alarmed. Not more medium tricks!

"Yeah," Jax says. "Don't ask me what that means. He was planning on doing the same to me, but Mick saved me."

"Mick?" Sara echoes. "But – how?"

Jax shrugs. "He's a lot stronger than the boys."

"Of course he is," Len says, warmth in his chest – but also fear. But the ice that wrapped around his common sense is starting to fade – this Savage isn't expecting Mick, and Mick is expecting Savage. He'll be – well, not careful, Mick is rarely careful in anything but Len's defense, but he'll be wary. 

"I don't understand," Ray says.

"Where's he now?" Len asks Jax.

"Doing reconnaissance and, hopefully, grabbing one of the boys for us to take a look at. He told me to tell you that he's planning on avoiding Savage for now."

The knot in Len's chest loosens further. "Good."

"Guys, guys!" Kendra shouts. "Hold up. Time out. What are you _talking_ about? How is _Mick_ –"

"No time to chat, birdie!" a familiar voice shouts from the door. It's Mick. He's got a struggling, white-eyed teenager in his arms. "I need a hand here!"

"Mick!" Sara exclaims. 

"Boy, am I glad to see you!" Ray says with a giant grin.

Rip looks like he bit into a lemon. 

Whatever. Mick needs help; Len can worry about the others later.

"Gideon, a sedative," Len orders, and retrieves it when she produces one. The boy gestures at a wall, knocking a few loose pieces over with a wave of poltergeist power, but a sedative helps calm him a little. Not much. 

He's possessed, Len thinks. But not by a ghost, not like Cabrera was – this feels almost natural - actually, if he had to compare it to anything, it would be to _Sara_ –

"I think Savage is trying to recreate Kendra and Carter," he says. 

Kendra finally snaps out of her shock, closes her gaping mouth and comes forward. "How?"

"Not sure," Len says.

"Kid thinks he's dead but he ain't," Mick says. "Savage is using some type of glowing rock to try to pull his spirit out of him, then shove him back in."

Everyone stares at him.

"What? I was watching; Savage was monologuing. There wasn't even anyone else in the room, he apparently just does that."

"At some point, you and Mr. Snart are going to have to explain yourselves, and the purpose of that unnecessary deception," Rip says. "But for the time being, I think I know the answer to what Savage is attempting to do here: he must have located some Nth metal, which I have reason to believe facilitated the original event which caused Miss Saunders and Mr. Hall's resurrection – the glowing rock in question."

"Is there any way to reverse what happened to the kid?" Sara asks.

"I was just gonna ask you that," Len says, deciding to follow Rip's example and put aside whatever confusion seems to have taken place. 

"Me?"

"You're the only one here with experience in being alive and dead at the same time," Len points out.

"Oh," she says. "Wait – the Lazarus Pits? Is this Nth metal related to those?"

"No idea what those are," Len says honestly. "But the name 'Lazarus' don't exactly fill me with too much confidence, if you get my meaning."

"If it's exposure, it may be related to radiation," Stein says. "Perhaps I can come up with something to reverse the process, with Mr. Palmer's assistance?"

Ray beams.

"Grey, no offense, but you're a physicist and he's a mechanical engineer," Mick grunts. "Not really your field."

Stein shrugs. "No, but we may be able to determine something, particularly if we had a control – the rock used by Savage, perhaps, or this Lazarus pit?"

"What does the Lazarus pit do, exactly?" Len asks Sara.

"It brings people back to life," Sara says. "But, you know, savage. Soulless." She hesitates for only a second. "Bloodthirsty."

"Vampires," Len says with some measure of satisfaction.

She glares at him.

"Historically mistaken for," he clarifies.

"...yeah, fair, I can see that. Even more with the whole werewolf-vampire thing – I came back totally insane until a friend of Oliver's reunited my spirit and my body."

Len makes a mental note to go look up this apparently beneficent medium. Maybe he's more like Len than like Cabrera.

"You said this rock helped cause Kendra and Carter's reincarnation and Savage's immortality," Ray says. "Where does it come from?"

"Meteorites," Kendra says. "There was a storm of rocks from heaven, when Carter and I died."

“A meteorite was reported landing in this area immediately before the original disappearance,” Gideon reports.

"That would explain it, then," Stein says. "Meteor storms hit the earth in various periods –"

"— some old enough that the meteorite material eventually gets dissolved into water, thus forming the Lazarus pits," Ray finishes, nodding. 

“Precisely, Mr. Palmer,” Stein says, smiling at him. Ray practically glows with validation.

Then he frowns. "Okay, so we know what the connection is. But how does that help us?"

"Because unlike whatever the hell Savage is doing with his rock, the pits have stabilized if the League is using them on a regular basis," Len says. "According to Mick, Savage is trying to yank out people's spirits and put them back in, so they're de-facto possessing themselves; the Lazarus pits revive someone without a spirit. Seems like a perfect match to me."

"What do you mean?" Rip asks, frowning.

Mick's nodding. "It's the opposite of Sara."

"Exactly."

They smirk at each other, pleased and in perfect understanding.

It doesn't mean they're okay, of course, but it's more than Len had before, and he's even awake enough to appreciate the importance of that.

"Uh, not to interrupt the very sight-for-sore-eyes bro-fest, but would you guys like to enlighten the rest of us?" Ray asks.

"Sara got exposed to the Lazarus pits and her body became suitable for long-term possession," Len says.

Sara makes a protesting sound.

"Suitable for life a second time, more or less some bloodthirstiness," Len amends. "Her spirit can rest easy – more or less, as I said – inside her body. These kids, their spirits are stuffed back inside and they don't fit, and that's why they've become so vicious –" Assuming they weren't unquiet dead or savage to start with, of course. Being medically converted like that couldn't create happy ghosts. Yet they seemed to remain to a certain degree under Savage's control...possibly something mediums could do, like Cabrera threatened? "Seems to me it's like Sara, except someone put the cart before the horse."

"That's a fascinating theory," Rip says. 

"You think exposing them to the Lazarus pits will make them – their spirits, I mean – fit into their bodies better?" Sara asks. "Basically make them more stable, like me?"

"This isn't really science," Ray says.

"Nth metal often confounds expectations," Rip says. "It's caused scientists to scrap multiple theories of how the universe works."

"Didn't say it was a bad thing! Just, y'know, different."

"It's worth a shot," Sara says. "We can't leave them like this."

"I agree," Rip says. "I say we go with Mr. Snart's suggestion - and may I say, it is good to have you back in proper order, Mr. Snart?" He pauses, looking a little embarrassed. "I - regret - if any of my actions led you to believe your prior course of action was necessary, or that I expected certain things from you. It was not my place."

Len waves a hand. He has no idea what Rip's talking about, but now isn't the time. He can quiz him later.

"If we follow Mr. Snart's suggestion, that means some of us need to go get samples of the waters of the Lazarus pits," Stein says. 

"And also not to confront Savage too early," Mick says, glancing at Kendra. "He noticed that the dagger went missing; he was excited by what that meant."

"Damn," she sighs. "Well, there goes the element of surprise, I guess."

"It also means that we need to focus on eliminating the meteorite he's already using," Sara says. "I don't want him doing this into the future – there won't be anything _left_ of Oregon."

"How about a two-pronged attack?" Len suggests. "After we get the Lazarus pit water, one group attacks Savage as a distraction –"

"He'll figure out that we're doing it as a distraction," Ray objects.

"Not if you confront him in public and accuse him of being your wife's lover," Stein says. "Everyone will come and watch; he won't be able to disengage while keeping his cover."

Everyone looks at him.

"What? I grew up in this era. I’m familiar with the intense desire for gossip…also, it happened to a neighbor of mine once."

"Right," Len says.

"But what would be the purpose of such a distraction?"

"Team two goes after his meteorite and the kids," Len says. "Savage will get word that something's going on at his facility, figure out that the attack by Ray was a distraction and rush over – hopefully we'll be done by that time, which means he'll be running into our ambush."

"That's a very good plan," Rip says approvingly.

"One issue," Sara says. "The Lazarus pits are guarded by the League of Assassins."

"Is the League at all superstitious?" Jax asks.

"Uh, sure. Why?"

"We take the jumpship, you, me and Grey. We cloak it, you tell us where to go, and we Firestorm our way in and out. League'll be too busy wondering what's going on with us to stop us."

"Good plan," Len says in turn, just as approvingly. Jax beams.

"Well, it's as viable as anything else," Sara decides. "Let's go. Kendra, Ray, you two okay playing ignorant for a while longer?"

"We can stage some fights and you can slap me for doubting you," Ray offers.

Kendra giggles. "That's mean."

"But think how much better you'll feel!"

She laughs and slides her hand in his. 

The shade at her feet flutters.

Len eyes it. Probably should mention that. "Hey, Kendra –"

She's whispering with Ray and not listening.

Later, then.

"Before you go, Professor, come with me to the sanitarium," Rip says. "I will take you in for questioning from there, then stay to investigate further – to try to keep an eye on him until our teammates return. That will also explain your mysterious absence."

"See, Rip, you _can_ accept other people's plans," Len drawls.

Rip's face struggles for a moment, then relaxes into a smile. "Well, yes. I am sadly accustomed to working solo; this entire notion of a team is something I'm still getting used to. I understand that I might sometimes need reminders, even if I don't always appreciate them."

Len's estimation of the guy rises some more.

“Great, we have a plan,” he drawls, feeling good about life again. With Mick by his side - well, that's not exactly set yet. “Let’s go execute it.”

“And what will you be doing, Mr. Snart?”

“Me? I’m gonna have a little chat with my partner.”


	37. 36

“I was being a prideful self-absorbed dumbass and I’m gonna stop with that,” Len says, once everyone else has gone – most of them on Len's instructions, while Rip decided to continue to FBI his way around town, hoping that, as the only other person Savage might recognize, he could serve as an additional means of heightening Savage’s paranoia – and they’re alone in his room. 

“I really hope Gideon records the contents of our rooms,” Mick says, crossing his arms and smirking. “I want photo-visual evidence of that.”

Len rolls his eyes. “I’ll say it in front of a camera, just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” Mick says, sobering, his smirk falling away. “I wasn’t acting all too great myself.”

Len frowns. “Being upset at me being controlling and not listening to you is pretty fair,” he points out.

“I knew I shouldn’t have promised anything to the time puppies without consulting you first,” Mick says. “I knew it, and I did it anyway, and I felt bad about doing it, so when you called me out on it, I was already on the defensive and I lashed out at you. I shouldn't have.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it ain’t,” Mick says. “You weren’t yourself.”

“I was acting like an asshole,” Len says humorlessly. “Not exactly _that_ out of character.”

“ _That type_ of asshole is out of character for you,” Mick says. “Trust me, I know your type of asshole, and it ain’t like that. Also, you do know I don’t really hold you _saving my ass_ against you, right?”

“Sure seemed like you did.”

“I was angry at _myself_ for being an asshole,” Mick says. “And then at you for not telling me about the necromancer. You know I hate it when you leave stuff out.”

“I know,” Len says. “And I’m gonna try to stop with that. Can't promise I'll always succeed - but I'll try.”

“Good,” Mick says firmly. “But that still doesn’t mean I should be hitting below the belt. I’ve never once thought of our relationship as unequal, okay? You’re usually pretty good at treating me like I’m a real live person.”

“I don’t see you as different,” Len starts, then pauses. “No, that’s not right. I do. You _are_ different. You’re the one person who’s never left me, never got used against me, never had to worry about. The one person that I thought for the longest time was safe. You couldn’t get hurt, you couldn’t die – that was my bedrock.”

“And then Cabrera happened.”

“And then Cabrera happened,” Len agrees. “You were right the first time about it. The whole thing - it knocked me loose a bit, made me paranoid. My dad hurt me, sure, whatever, it was horrifying but I'm pretty used to him pulling new horrifying things out of his hat, but Cabrera threatened _you_ , and that freaked me out. It shook me.”

“And then you find out the immortal asshole we got recruited to fight is another medium, just like Cabrera, and you freak out even more,” Mick says, nodding. “I get it. S’no excuse for how you’ve been acting, but I get it.” 

“I’ll do better,” Len says, thinking of Kendra’s little dust-up with Ray. No point to it at all, but for pride and the desire to keep the ones you care for safe. Nasty combination, and Len has it all in spades. He can't let that get between them, though. He can't. 

“I will, too,” Mick says. “Specifically in noticing when you’re not in a headspace for a fight. What happened?”

“What do you mean? I’ve told you all of it.”

“You’ve given me some details, yeah, but – Lenny –” Len’s not sure whether to be relieved or concerned that they’ve moved into ‘Lenny’ territory. “– I shouldn’t have picked a fight when you were still in _shock_.”

“I wasn’t!”

“I checked with Gideon once I noticed,” Mick says. “You definitely were.”

That – would actually explain that weird distance that'd been surrounding him, which had slowly started to fade until he’d finally cracked through the ice to be able to feel things like proper emotions again.

Len’s been in shock before, but it’s been a while, and it’s usually when he’s been shot. It'd occurred to him a few times that it might be it, but he'd always dismissed it: he was sound in body, how could he be in shock?

Apparently, he could be.

“Must’ve been a side-effect of meeting the angel,” Len says, frowning. It’s the only thing it could’ve been – sure, he’d had escalating paranoia issues, but he’d been managing them (however badly) up until then. 

“Yeeeeeah, about that,” Mick says, plopping himself down on the bed, looking about as relieved as Len feels to have gotten the touchy-feely portion of the conversation over with. “What’d you mean, angel? You ain’t the religious type, and you don’t do that much in terms of metaphor usually.”

“Well, you know how we were in deep space and I kept having a really loud ringing in my ears?”

“Yeah?”

“Stars.”

“…stars?”

“Yep. Stars. Singing. Actually, more like the ghosts of stars, apparently,” Len says. “Bright light, blue eyes, wings – maybe, I’m not sure – anyway, the ghost of a star that used to live in the place we went came to visit me.”

Mick blinks. His face is doing that thing where he can’t decide what he’s feeling or even if he’s feeling anything because he’s just so bewildered by what he just heard. 

“It was weird,” Len adds. 

“A _ghost_. Of a _star_?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know it was a thing either.”

"A star."

"You got it."

"A ghost of a - and it looks like an _angel_?"

"Yeah."

“The _fuck_.”

“That’s what I said.”

“ _To the angel_ , Len?!”

“He said Ezekiel did it, too!” Len protests.

“Ezekiel as in _Old Testament_ Ezekiel?”

“The one who saw angels, yeah,” Len says, rubbing at his face a bit. He had been doing such a good job of ignoring the comparison up until now, too...

“…well,” Mick says, because really, what else is there to say? “Huh. Well then.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really something.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay, no, now I've gotta ask. How the hell did a guy from thousands of years ago see a _ghost of a star_ , though?” Mick asks. “Even assuming he was like you, some ancestor of yours, it still doesn't make sense. He didn’t have space travel! So how - and why - was there an angel hanging around for him to see it?”

Len feels his face goes very solemn even as his belly seizes with the old familiar anticipatory glee.

“Well, Mick,” he says with a straight a face as he can manage. “I guess the star must’ve been _shooting by_.”

“Shooting – goddamnit, Len, this is no time for puns.”

“I dunno, I thought that one was _out of this world_.”

“Len –”

“Okay, okay, so I didn’t _planet_ out all that well; I’ll do better next time.”

“Your puns _suck_ worse than a _black hole_ , you dumbass.”

Len cracks a grin. That was a good one. “ I knew I married you for a reason.”

Mick smirks back. “Oh, it’s for the puns, is it?”

“Entirely,” Len agrees, looking at Mick contemplatively. He'd love to spend a bit of quality time reestablishing important marital bonds, but... “Want to bet on whether the rest of the team has managed to get in trouble yet?”

Mick rolls his eyes. “That’s a sucker’s bet.”

And, almost as if it'd been waiting for its cue, there’s a buzz on their comms – the ones Cisco gave them back in Central, meaning it was one of the old Team Flash that'd been put on their team: Jax, probably, or maybe Stein. 

Len and Mick look at each other, long-suffering.

“Ten to one it’s trouble,” Mick says with a groan. Len agrees, but clicks it on anyway.

It turns out to be Stein.

“What happened?” Len asks. "What's the emergency?"

“Ah - while I understand why you might think that, in fact, nothing out of the ordinary is happening,” Stein says. “The plan is proceeding apace. We are now nearing Nanda Parbat, where Jefferson and I will be enacting our portion of the plan. Before we arrived, however, I stole away for a moment to call you.”

Len blinks. If they’re not in trouble, then what…?

“I wanted to apologize to Mr. Snart,” Stein says. “For judging him overly hastily, particularly given my knowledge of him.”

“Uh, thanks?” Len says. “I think? I mean, I’m used to it – thief, murderer, that sort of thing…”

“Not _that_ ,” Stein says. “It was made very clear to me – by Jefferson, among others – that despite your reputation, you were a good man to have on our side: intelligent, cunning, and capable. I trusted in that reputation. And yet, when you and Mr. Rory went off to have your fight in the forest and only Mr. Snart returned – I assumed the worst.”

Len and Mick share bewildered looks.

“Professor,” Mick says gently. “You – you have been told that I’m _dead_ , right?”

“I know that,” Stein says, clearly rolling his eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Mr. Allen and his friends informed me, and Jefferson confirmed it after our bonding - and, if you recall, I did happen to witness that battle on Earth-2. I most assuredly believe in it. Indeed, however bizarre I might find it, it’s not exactly outside the realm of the teachings of Judaism – I _was_ trained as rabbi, you know –”

“Told you it was kosher,” Len tells Mick smugly.

“No, it’s – that’s not – we’re getting away from the point here. As I was saying, hen Mr. Jefferson joined our triad, and indeed, when Mr. Snart became allied with Team Flash, I was in fact informed of Mr. Snart’s abilities and your particular iteration thereof, Mr. Rory. Despite that, I assumed that Mr. Snart had, in your fury at each other…ah…well…to be frank, Mr. Snart, I assumed that you had somehow banished Mr. Rory.”

“Oh,” Len says blankly. “I mean, I don’t really ‘banish’ ghosts the way that mediums do, all circles and spells and stuff, but I do sometimes send them away – still, that would have been a shitty thing to do in the middle of a _forest_ in who-knows-what-era…wait. Has _that_ been why everyone’s been so weird around me? Because they assumed I did something to Mick?” 

"The others -" Stein begins. 

“Len wouldn’t do something like that,” Mick objects, overriding him. "He ain't like that."

Len winces. Technically, in 2046, he _had_ done exactly something like that, albeit with good intentions – and you know what they say about good intentions – 

“Wait, hold up another sec,” he says, thinking back. “Was - was _that_ why Rip apologized?! Because he thought he’d encouraged me to go – to _Mick_ – for _this stupid mission’s sake?_!” He stands up. “You know what, I’m gonna –”

Mick grabs Len’s arm. “Down, Lenny,” he says sternly. “Let’s finish this whole business with the poltergeist kids first.”

Len grumbles, but concedes and sits back down. “Don’t worry about it, Stein,” he says into the comm, where Stein had been waiting in worried silence. “We haven’t worked together all that long and you don’t have personal experience with me; you mostly know what you read in the papers, which ain't exactly complimentary, and beyond that you’ve just got Jax’s word for it. Makes sense you’d make a hasty leap.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” Stein says. 

“In the future, though – I don’t turn on crew that don’t turn on me, and you’re crew. Especially since you’ve got Jax in your bond. So if you’ve got any questions, just come talk to me direct; I won’t take offense. And good luck on your mission.”

"Seconded, Professor," Mick adds. 

“I will,” Stein says warmly. “And thank you both.”

He clicks off.

“Well, no trouble in that camp,” Len tells Mick, shaking his head. He can't believe that anyone who knows him would think that, but he guesses that this crew hasn't really had a good chance to get to know him. And he has been acting pretty out of character... “Let’s go see what trouble everyone else is up to.”

Surprisingly little, it turns out: Gideon reports that Kendra and Ray have taken great care to always be seen in public areas, fighting, and that Savage has been repeatedly spotted all but stalking them – specifically Kendra – quite obviously; people have already started to notice, so much so that Ray’s starting to be worried that if they don’t deal with the problem soon, the nosy neighbors might start the ruckus themselves. 

Gideon also reports that Rip is pulling off an increasingly credible FBI agent, and connect them to his comms for them to listen in. Turns out he even took the cue from Len’s earlier comment to spin a story about being undercover in the Cold War and the British accent just sticking. The sheriff had been pretty wowed by that.

Of course, then he asked what was the deal with someone like Len – using an _entirely_ unnecessary slur, of course – working for the FBI.

“He’s one of our informants,” Rip lies. 

“Making him feel better by giving him a badge,” the sheriff says, nodding. “Got it. They've started getting all uppity, nowadays, won't do anything unless they feel catered to...”

Rip suddenly gets a lot of cooperation, but he spends the entire time sounding like he’s smelled something bad.

It does a surprising amount to cheer Len up, actually. Okay, Rip might sometimes be an idiot captain making incredibly stupid assumptions sometimes, but he’s part of Len’s crew, and he means well - his apology and acknowledgement from earlier showed it. That counts for something. 

Len supposes he can forgive him, if only because Mick is laughing quite so hard about it.

“I do so love Gideon’s comms,” Len says happily once Rip is out of earshot of the Sheriff. “Gideon, tell me I can have a recording of that?”

“Captured, Mr. Snart. Would you like me to produce a hard copy file for you?”

“Nah, digital's fine. Email it to me; I want to treasure Rip's Very First Experience With Systemic Racism forever.”

“Your sense of humor is infantile," Mick says.

“Says the guy on the floor.”

“I’m laughing at your expressions. Better than a comedy show.”

“Uh-huh. I believe you.”

“You know, I always appreciated that in a partner: the love, the trust, the lack of condescending assholery…”

"And yet you stick by me. Have you checked your own sense of humor recently?"

“Listen, you…” Mick says with a smirk, starting to reach for Len.

The comms crackle back to life just when it was starting to get interesting. "We've got the Lazarus water!" Jax exclaims. "Also, the League may or may not think I'm a phoenix. Or an angel. Or whatever they call firebird-angel-things here. I made cawing noises, it was fun."

"Congrats," Len says, eyes suddenly drawn by instinct to one of the other screens where Gideon is showing the locations of the various crew members on a map, along with dots to signify other people. "Come back, double-quick. I think Savage is getting tired of waiting."

"On it, boss."

"Mick, look," Len says, gesturing at the screen.

"How did Haircut and Chickadee end up getting lured over to the sanitarium past nightfall?" Mick demands. "She decide she wanted to go up against Savage alone after all?"

"Possible," Len says, jabbing at the screen to try to get it to go to video. Luckily, Ray had been into the whole button cam idea, so there was one. "Huh, nope. Looks they have an escort. An armed escort."

"Is that Savage? No – it’s that sheriff."

“Yep,” Len says. 

"He's been doing a lot of escorting for Savage," Mick says darkly.

"That may be because one of the afflicted boys is his son," Gideon says. 

"Didn't know that, but it makes sense. Savage probably told him about the experiments but made it out like they were a cure, not the disease," Len says, nodding. He activates the comms. "Rip, plan's off. Ray and Kendra are being dragged into the sanitarium. Meet you there?"

"I'll be there at once," Rip replies. "Bring the Waverider; we may need her." 

The comms click off. Len blinks. "He knows we can't drive, right?"

"I can instruct you, Mr. Snart," Gideon says.

"Teach Mick," Len says. "I don't drive."

With Mick in the Captain's seat – Len's gotta say, he likes the look on him, like a very muscular Kirk or Sisko, and obviously some Picard in the haircut – they land in the parking lot by the sanitarium quickly enough.

Ray and Kendra have started stalling.

"I don't know what your problem is," Kendra says, her voice audible over the comms. "You come out of nowhere – force me and my husband here – and for no reason!"

"No reason?" Savage laughs. "My dear Chay-Ara, we are surely beyond that now?"

"I don't know who this Chay-Ara is," Ray says, best Brad Majors impression firmly intact. "But don't you dare talk to my wife that way!"

"I must admit, you are something of a surprise," Savage says. "I was expecting – shall we say – another."

"We don't know what you're talking about," Kendra insists.

"Don't you?" Savage asks. "Let us look in your purse, here –"

"Don't you dare – oh!" There's the sound of a slap.

"You bastard," Ray says with real anger. "How dare you hit her?!"

"That was ill-mannered of you, sheriff," Savage says, his voice slick. "I would advise you not to repeat the action – and to apologize to the lady."

"But –"

"Now," Savage says, his voice pointed.

"Sorry," the sheriff says, clearly unrepentant but cowed by Savage.

Len and Mick creep closer to the room, turning the corner and moving as silently as they can. They can now see the room – Ray is handcuffed to a chair, Kendra is on the ground clutching her cheek, Savage is holding her purse and glaring at the sheriff.

Kendra lunges for her purse, only for Savage to grab her by the shoulder and throw her into the table.

"Looking for this?" he laughs, pulling out the dagger. "You thought you could come here with this false marriage, these false smiles, and think I would not realize you had remembered yourself? Even after my dagger goes missing? You must think me a fool, Chay-Ara."

"Nah, just moderately stupid," Len says and fires the cold gun.

Savage dodges, and the cold beam freezes only his shoulder, which he takes with a grunt. 

"Sorry to disrupt the party," Mick says, and steps forward with his heat gun, aiming at the sheriff, who is trying to draw his gun.

He manages it, only to promptly drop it, yowling, in the face of a blast from Mick's heat gun. Metal is a very good conductor of heat.

"Boys!" Savage calls. "To me!"

And then through the door burst the – Len doesn't know what to call them. Half-lives, poltergeists in the bodies of the living. Boys with their eyes whited out and glowing, faces twisted in snarls of rage, unspeaking, angry.

"Oh, let me at one!" Loraine calls, darting forward. Len has only empowered her a little; she's nowhere near the visual spectrum, but it makes the boy flinch back anyway.

Len grins. 

The kids can see the ghosts.

"Come here," Len says, his voice echoing, a single command. 

And they come. Loraine's ancestors, her tribe and their mortal enemies, those who more recently died – accidents and murders and suicides – natural deaths come too quickly –

And, of course, the ghosts of the boys' victims. 

That certainly gets them to flinch, faces twisting in terror, hands and invisible ripping claws going wide, hitting walls, beds, chairs, but missing people. 

"And what are you?" Savage says, his eyes alight, fixed on Len, intent. "Something old, perhaps? Or something new?"

"Something borrowed, something blue," Len says. "Don't you know Hollywood-style wedding traditions?"

He fires his gun again. 

Savage dodges again, more successfully this time, and throws a knife that he's pulled from somewhere. And then he tears off that lab coat of his, revealing the answer: he's wearing what look like dozens of them. 

Len ducks behind a ripped-up table, pushing it onto its side just in time for two of Savage's knives to embed themselves into where he last was.

"Ray! Kendra!"

"I have the dagger!" she shouts. 

"You'll never have a chance to use it, my dear," Savage calls, and throws one of his knives, knocking the dagger out of her hand.

Then he aims at Ray, who's shrinking down, and catches him halfway through the process, knocking him head over heels.

"Ray!" Kendra shouts, diving for the dagger and snatching it up again, but turning helplessly towards Ray instead of rushing at Savage.

"Boys, get him!" Savage orders.

Two of the boys leap forward, eyes intent, hands outstretched –

"Not today, suckers," Sara says from the door, and hits them with a spray from a water gun.

The boys stagger back, shrieking, but even as Len watches, the white light fades out of their eyes. Their bodies swell with life – real life – their spirits, disjointedly put back the wrong way, turning and slipping home, clicking back into place like puzzle pieces.

Damn, but Len loves to be right.

"Dad?" one of the boys says, looking at the sheriff, still nursing his burnt hand. "Dad!"

"Son –" 

They embrace.

"You're still a racist dickbag," Kendra tells him, then looks around. Sara is spraying the water on the remaining boys. "Damnit, no! Where'd Savage go?"

"Out the window," Mick says grimly, picking himself up. "He knocked me back – nearly got a knife in my gun – and went out. Want me to follow?"

Len shakes his head. Not alone, definitely not.

Mick shrugs, having already clearly assumed that that would be the answer. 

"Great," Kendra says, looking disappointed. "So we're back where we started."

Ray resizes himself and touches her shoulder. "We stopped the murders, and we've got the dagger now," he reminds her. "And, hey – you got to see Savage run from you. Not bad, huh?"

Kendra smiles. "That part _was_ pretty good."

"It's of no matter," Rip says, standing at the door. "We will get him the next time. Savage's reaction here shows that the plan we were working with had a fair chance of being successful – he was overconfident and foolish." He smiles. "He got lucky this time. Next time, he won't."

"You bet your ass he won't," Mick growls.

"Oh, Mick," Kendra laughs. "The journey hasn't been the same without you."

"Indeed," Rip says dryly. "In fact, I was wondering if you'd explain that."

"Nothing to explain," Mick says, shrugging. 

"You just don't like talking," Jax tells him with a laugh.

They're all starting to relax, so naturally that's when one of the ghosts Len called up from the sanitarium says, "A second ship is approaching."

Len and Mick both straighten up, alarmed.

"Gideon, report. Is someone coming?" Len asks.

No reply.

"Something's wrong with Gideon," Mick says.

"What?!" Rip exclaims, and they all rush out.

It's good that they do, too, because they hit the Stormtroopers Three dead on, trying to board the Waverider.

Len hoists his gun and bares his teeth.

He's starting to get _really_ sick of these assholes.

Luckily, repelling the Stormtroopers Three from the Waverider turns out not to be that bad. Kendra takes wing, dagger in hand, and dives at them from above, while Len and Mick use their guns to scare them off the ship. With Sara, Ray and Rip covering their retreat, it’s easy enough to keep the Three at bay while they’re backing onto the Waverider, and then Gideon gets them off the ground. 

“They’re no Savage, that’s for sure,” Ray says with pleasure as the Waverider makes the jump, soaring into the green of the time stream.

“Indeed,” Rip says. “I think that we –”

A blast shook the ship.

“What the _hell_?” Jax demands, running to the window. “It’s – guys, it’s those assholes again!”

“ _Already_?” Kendra exclaims. 

“Gideon, evade!” Rip exclaims. “Everyone, strap in, we’ll fire on them, and then we’ll do a quick series of jumps to make sure they can’t follow us further –”

Len was under the impression that time-jumping was nauseating. That has _nothing_ on a _lot_ of time-jumping in a short sequence of time.

“I hate this,” Mick moans.

He has no place to complain - it isn't going to kill him, he's already _dead_. Len's stomach, on the other hand, might decide that this is the fatal blow...

“I think we’ve lost them, Captain,” Gideon reports.

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Very well,” Rip says. “Gideon, please put in the following coordinates –”

“Wait, where are we going now?” Sara asks. 

“A small town called Salvation, in South Dakota,” Rip says. “In, ah, 1871.”

Everybody stares at him.

"Remind me again, Rip, why do we think Savage will be in the Wild West?" Len drawls. "Seemed like he was a fair bit more of an urban kinda a guy, at least to my eyes."

"At the moment, it's not Savage that's the problem," Rip says. "It's the Hunters."

It takes a minute for everyone to realize who he's talking about.

"The Stormtroopers Three?" Jax asks.

"Larry, Curly and Moe?" Mick adds.

"We're running from _them_?" Sara asks indignantly. "We just kicked their asses! Twice!"

"But they disabled our shields before we arrived," Rip says darkly. "A few more solid hits, and they'll shatter. We cannot afford a direct engagement until they are repaired, and the fact that they were able to catch up to us so quickly suggests that they've obtained updated technology from the Time Masters which we will need to account for."

"And the Wild West?" Len asks again. "Why there?"

"It's a time pocket," Rip says. "We'll be safe from detection there."

He's treated to a handful of skeptical looks, but that's what he deserves, given that he'd previously been talking about how safe the time stream was. Even after the first time the Stormtroopers Three had very nearly caught them in the time stream after their first attack failed...

"They weren’t aiming to get to us so quickly before, even without the tech, and they were really shooting to kill this time," Mick says. "Why'd they change it up now?"

"The bounty on our heads may have been changed from alive to dead _or_ alive," Rip says. "Going to the time pocket will help us rest and recover.” He scowls at them. “Especially since certain people on this crew have rejected my _other_ proposal for where to go.”

“We’re still not going to the future to murder baby Hitler,” Ray says. “We all agreed. Every one of us, right before we went to the ‘50s. We’d be sorry, but – we’re really not.”

“Not a one of us signed up for child murder,” Kendra agrees.

“You wouldn’t be –” Rip starts.

“We’re not aiding and abetting child murder either, Rip,” Sara says. “The vote was unanimous against you. Drop it already.”

“We could just use the time period to attack Savage, as we know he’s there,” Rip says stiffly.

“Except you’ve already explained about the extensive defenses Kasnia has surrounding its leader,” Stein says. “Savage would never give us the opportunity, which would mean that you would propose returning to your original plan. I'm afraid we must continue to object, Captain Hunter.”

“Remember, Rip – teamwork means working _together_ ,” Jax reminds him. “Besides, not even _you’re_ sure whether you could actually do the kid in.”

Rip makes a face, not disagreeing. He's not really a very good killer, not personally, and by now they all know it. “Very well, I concede the argument. That doesn’t change the fact that we need to go in for repairs somewhere, and the time pocket in Salvation is likely the best place for it. Please strap yourselves down or return to your rooms; this jump will be particularly bumpy."

Mick glances at Len and jerks his head to their room, clearly wanting to talk about something. Len nods and follows.

"You gonna be okay?" Mick asks once they're alone.

Len frowns at him. "I should think so," he says. "We ain't going up against Savage this time, just going to go to ground for a bit, and I hardly think we'll run into any necromancers or mediums or angels _there_."

"I was more thinking about regular run-of-the-mill ghosts," Mick says dryly. "1871 ain't too far back from 1865, you know, and a hell of a lot of Civil War vets went out west, and probably took their ghosts with 'em."

Len purses his lips. That’s a good point. "We'll warn Kendra and Jax about that, too; the living are probably just as racist as the dead. You think there'll be a lot of ghosts? Surely South Dakota’s too far out."

"I think the Civil War rousted up a lot of unquiet dead," Mick says. "Wars always do. You shoulda seen the years right after World War II."

Len makes a face. It's been months and months since his last serious unquiet dead attack; he's gotten powerful enough to draw friendlies to his side almost automatically, and he barely has to remember to give them enough to make them happy. But yeah, the Civil War – he can see that giving rise to a lot of very angry, very unpleasant ghosts.

"How do you want to handle, then?" he asks. "Want me to stay behind on the ship?"

Mick considers it, and Len lets him. He's excited to see the Wild West, but he's none too interested in the Civil War. American media paints them so differently that he'd forgotten they happened at basically the same time.

"No, I don't think that'll be necessary," Mick finally says, nodding. "I'm pretty good at watching your ass –"

"You're my husband; I should hope so," Len quips.

"Mind _out_ of the gutter, boss; I'm being serious. I think it'll be okay, but maybe you ought to take extra care in getting some friendlies right off the bat, more than usual, I mean."

Len nods. "Fair. You know, I hadn't really noticed it until I was repelling ghosts in the ‘50s – all except Loraine – but I'm pretty sure I used to be a lot better at remembering their names. The ghosts, I mean. You know, knowing something about 'em, knowing what it is they want, that sorta thing. Now I barely even ask 'em what they're called. Really ought to fix that."

Mick looks amused. "You do that, boss."

"What?" Len protests. "It's a thing, it's been happening."

"Of course it's been happening, boss," Mick says. "There are more ghosts."

"So?"

"So a general's a lot less likely to be on one-on-one terms with his men than a sergeant is, that's all I'm saying."

"I'm trying to avoid too much – generalship. Remember?" Len reminds Mick.

"Oh, I remember," Mick says. "I still want at least one friendly watching your back in the West."

"I'll look for one, or better yet, more than one," Len says, still somewhat annoyed by Mick's blithe dismissal of the issue. Sure, Len isn't always the best with names – he has some face-name matching issues that he tends to cover with nicknames, just like Mick does - but he used to at least make an _effort_ with the ghosts. He always felt it was the least he could do, what with him asking them for favors immediately thereafter. 

He quietly resolves to do better.

Of course, then they change into era-appropriate gear (flintlocks! Be still Len's grew-up-down-the-street-from-a-historical-reenactment-ground heart!) and go out into the streets and he is promptly flooded with ghosts coming to take a gawk at him.

"Uh, hi," Len says to them. "What're your names?"

"SarahGraceTheordoreReenaMacyWhiteDoeJamesLon-"

Len throws up a hand to stem the tide.

Mick is sniggering.

Len glares at him, then looks at the ghosts. "Uh, you, Quaker-woman and, uh, you, uh – what tribe are you?"

"I am of the Cheyenne River Sioux tribe," the man says. "But I was baptized James."

"...is that your preferred name?" 

The guy looks taken aback. "It will do," he says. “Calling me Diving Hawk just makes me think my mother is cross with me.”

"Well, wouldn’t want that. Whatever floats your boat. Quaker-woman?"

"Grace," she says. "And I’m no Quaker. I'm a follower of Joseph Smith."

"All right, then," Len says, wondering why that sounds familiar. And why Mick's sniggers have intensified. "Can you two be my go-betweens with the others?"

"We would be delighted to," Grace says. She's only a moderately powerful ghost, a weaker poltergeist, though she has a look about her that makes Len think she's probably one of his more violent friendlies. "What would you want them to do?"

"Me want them – no, no. Nothing at the minute," Len says. "Just, you know, if you or any of them want life to get something done –"

“Oh, yes,” Grace says. “If we –”

"Maybe not now," Mick interjects. "The other Legends are coming, and they're looking bitchy."

"Later," Len tells his ghosts, who nod and float away to talk to the others, presumably about Len’s offer.

Sara's in the lead. She marches straight up to Len and says, "Rip's not coming."

"What? Why? I’d have thought – y’know – with the duster and the revolver –"

“Yeah, you’re not alone,” Ray says, scowling.

"He says it's for repairs, but we kept up on him and it turns out he had a bad encounter in this time period, or something like that. Wouldn’t give details." Sara snorts. "He's hiding something. _Again_."

"He's having real trouble with this whole team thing," Mick comments. “Funny, it being his idea and all.”

"Yeah, well. I promised we'd behave, but I'm thinking we can 'behave' ourselves at the local tavern. All the movies make out like it's the best place to gather intel anyway."

"Sure, intel," Mick guffaws. "That's what you call it?"

"What do you call it?"

"Trouble, that’s what I call it.”

She grins. "I'll settle for getting a feel of the old West. You two in?"

"Sure," Len says. 

"Bet I can outdrink you both," Sara says.

"I'll take that bet," Mick says, brightening.

"He cheats," Len warns Sara. It's unfair to drink with a dead man, though he thinks Sara might be able to swing it.

"I'll deal," she says blithely.

The town they go to is small, wretched and dusty. The tavern is the liveliest joint in town, and that's a low, low bar, given that the alternative appears to be sitting around coughing up dust and possibly watching weeds grow. 

Len has a brand new respect for Saints and Sinners. 

Of course, then Grey cheats at cards and some asshole tries to draw on him.

Len shoots the gun out of the man’s hand. 

"Sonofabitch!" the man shouts, clutching at his hand.

"That coulda been between your eyes," Len drawls disinterestedly. "Now either sit down and put up or get out."

"How dare you?" the man shouts. His face is flushed a deep red, his mouth flecked white with spit. Len is somewhat concerned about accidentally killing him via triggering an apoplexy. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," Len says. "Don't much care, either."

"I'm one of Stillwater's!"

Must be a local gang.

"Pass along my condolences, will you?" Len says. 

"Your – what?"

Len has a decision to make. This is about to turn into a fight - depending on what he says, he can either calm it down or rev it up.

Though, to be fair, after the last few weeks he’s had, Len could use a nice, uncomplicated bar fight right about now.

Oh, what the hell. _He_ didn’t promise to behave. 

Len makes a show of sighing and puts down his cards. "Tell your boss," he says slowly, "that I'm sorry he has to deal with such a dumbass snot-nosed horse-fucker as yourself on his crew."

The guy goes for the lamp on the table and throws it at Len.

Len shoots it out of the air, just to show off.

Then half the room jump to their feet and three of them rush at Len.

Naturally, that's when Mick gives a big old holler and rushes _them_ , Sara at his side.

Damn, but Len loves a good bar fight.

"That was kinda fun," Jax says when they're done and the rest of the fighters are either unconscious or fled. Even Stein got into the fun, grabbing a chair and swinging it around like a maniac.

"If by fun you mean trouble," a harsh voice growls from the door.

Len looks. It's a man in a grey Confederate uniform, a nasty scar on his face, and a scowl.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy asks.

“No,” Ray says, stepping forward. “We’re from out of town. Uh. _Way_ out of town.” He grins.

The guy sneers. “Yeah, of course you are. Why don’t you lot tell me where you’re really from?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” Stein says.

“Lemme rephase,” the guy says. “Tell me _when_ y’all are from.”

They stare at him.

“You stand out like a dog in a manger,” he says with a sneer. “Now where is he?”

“Who?” Sara asks.

“Rip Hunter,” the man says. “I’ve got words that need saying to him.”

“You know,” Jax says. “I think we’ve just figured out why Rip wanted to stay on board.”

“C’mon,” Sara says. “Let’s go back to the ship.”

“What, _with_ him?” Len asks doubtfully. He doesn't like that uniform or what it stands for. 

“Rip’ll know what to do,” Sara says firmly. 

Turns out that Sara's right and he's wrong, though: Rip’s expression when he sees the man is _priceless_.

The man – Jonah Hex by name, it appears – starting the conversation by accusing Rip of stealing his coat?

_Even better._


	38. 37

“Your boys got into a dust-up with the Stillwater gang at the tavern,” Hex tells Rip. “Stillwater’s men have been stealing, robbing, killing people in this town for months. This ain’t gonna help.”

"That's terrible," Ray says. “Well, if they want to continue that, they’ll have to go through us first."

“No, they won’t,” Rip squawks, and for once Len is inclined to agree with him. “Your little ruckus has undoubtedly already placed the timeline at risk, to say nothing of potentially alerting the Hunters to our presence here.”

“Looks like someone’s already planning on busting out of town,” Hex says, sneering. “Again. You always were good at cutting and running, Hunter.”

“A man wearing a Confederate uniform doesn’t really get to talk about cutting and running,” Len says mildly. 

“It’s rude to discuss matters to which you have no understanding, Mr. Snart,” Rip says hastily, even as Hex turns on Len and takes a step towards him, eyes narrowed and mouth all threatening-like. 

Len seen a lot worse. He glares back. 

“My mother was black,” he says pointedly. “Jax is black. Kendra’s black. Feel we’re pretty far along understanding all we need to understand about good ol' Jonah here, however buddy-buddy the two of you may have been back in the day.”

“I had my loyalties,” Hex says stiffly. “And I surrendered myself to the Union army after 1862 rather than betray either my comrades or my disdain of the slave-holding system.”

“The fact that it took you until the Emancipation Proclamation to figure out that the Civil War was about slavery doesn’t say much about your intelligence,” Kendra says, arms crossed. “Uh, no offense.”

Everyone stares at her.

“There a way of taking that that _wasn’t_ offensive?” Hex asks, but he looks more amused than anything else.

“Maybe we should talk about the Stillwater gang,” Ray says hastily. “And how we plan to stop them.”

“Still not seeing how it’s any of our business, Haircut,” Mick says.

“We’re _heroes_ ,” Ray says. “We can’t just stand aside and let this town suffer!” 

“Well, what about the timeline effects?” Sara says practically. “It’s one thing if the Stillwater gang was a bunch of nobodies who have no impact, but if they end up attacking someone who gets inspired by that incident to shape their belief system and then that person becomes someone influential – stopping that could be bad. Butterfly effect, right?”

“Excellent point, Miss Lance,” Rip says. 

"But how does the butterfly effect square with the whole 'time wants to happen' stuff?" Jax asks, frowning.

“Gideon, why don't you check the timeline?" Rip continues, ignoring him.

He probably doesn't have a good answer.

“As it happens, no member of the Stillwater gang has a significant impact on history,” Gideon says. “In fact, the only individual in the town who does is one Herbert George Wells, a young boy, and he's not listed as having any life-changing incidents during this period.”

“Then we _can_ interfere!” Ray exclaims. “Listen, guys, it's actually all pretty simple. There’s a town being terrorized by this gang, and I aim to do something about it.”

“You 'aim to',” Len says dryly.

“Haircut’s going native,” Mick says, smirking. 

“I think it’s admirable,” Kendra says firmly, but her attention is elsewhere. “Uh, Sara, can I borrow you for a minute?”

The girls head off their own way. 

Ray goes back to town to talk to the sheriff, Hex accompanying him – Rip having opted, yet again, to remain on the ship for reasons of his own. 

Ray walks out with a sheriff’s badge pinned onto him and a gigantic grin.

“Oh, he’s gonna be insufferable now,” Len says, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Nevertheless, it is our duty as his teammate to back him up,” Stein says with a sigh. “Come along, Jefferson; it’s best if we stick together. Let’s go ask for a map or something at the tavern.”

That just leaves Len and Mick. 

“There isn’t even anything here worth stealing,” Len complains to Mick, who nods in pained agreement.

“I’ve gathered up some other ghosts for you, sir,” Grace says, floating over to him. She points at a massed up crowd, some way distant. “I’ve asked them to stay back for now, though.”

“Well, that’s thoughtful,” Len says, noticing absently that James is nowhere in sight. “So, what is it you want the life in order to –”

At just that moment, an actual honest-to-god posse on horseback ride into town, shouting and firing guns.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Len groans, burying his face in his hands. 

“We should find high ground,” Mick says, heading off purposefully.

Len grabs a rifle and follows. 

Ray, of course, walks straight up to the guy. “This here town’s under my protection.”

The man sneers. “And who the hell are you?”

“John Wayne,” Ray says. “Salvation’s new sheriff.”

“Did he just –” Mick starts.

“Don’t,” Len says. He can feel a headache developing. 

Grace’s still floating by. 

“We can talk later,” Len tells her. 

She nods, though she looks a little annoyed.

“– my boys ride into town whenever we want and take whatever we want,” the guy in charge says. “In exchange, we don’t kill the whole lot of you, the whole town. But the arrangement’s over now, little man. And given that there’s only one of you –”

Let it never be said Len doesn’t know his entrance lines.

He shoots the gun out of the leader’s – Stillwater? – hand, making his horse rear up and making the man have to take some time to calm it.

Ray smirks. “You get out of town and you don’t come back, or the next bullet’s in your eye,” he says. “I’ve got sharpshooters all around.”

“Boss,” one of the gang says. “The guy at the bar could also shoot a gun out of a man’s hand…”

“Probably the same guy,” Stillwater scoffs, twisting around in his seat to look to see where the shot came from. He sounds a little doubtful, though.

Len ducks down and shoves the gun at Mick, who stands up pointedly.

“There,” one of the gang says.

“Different guy, boss,” another reports.

“Fine,” Stillwater spits. “Let’s ride, boys!”

And then they all gallop out.

“Dude,” Jax says from the door of the tavern. “That was bad _ass_.”

“Running a bad guy out of town’s always been on my bucket list,” Ray replies gleefully.

“You lot ain’t nothing but trouble,” Hex says, scowling. “You just keep on poking that hornet’s nest.” 

“Hey,” Jax protests. “He saved the town!”

“Today, sure,” Hex says. “What about tomorrow? Day after? For a bunch of time travelers, you don’t seem to understand much about the future. One day you’re gonna leave, and Salvation will end up like Calvert.”

“What’s Calvert?” Ray asks.

It turns out to be some town in Oklahoma that a guy named Quentin Turnbull razed to the ground, and it turned out that Rip had been there – Rip had actually moved in, gone native, and stayed there nearly half a year. The day after he’d disappeared, the whole place had been destroyed. 

That, presumably, was why Rip was keeping to himself this mission. 

“That would’ve been nice to hear from Rip,” Jax says, but shrugs. “Okay. So what do we do now? We can’t stay forever.”

“If you want to save this town, _really_ save it, that means we have to find and destroy the Stillwater gang for good,” Hex says. “And that means finding and arresting Stillwater himself. With him gone, the rest of them will scatter like rats.”

“I have a map,” Jax says, holding it out to Hex, who snatches it. “And directions. Grey got them from the barkeep. He went back to the ship to get a kid some medicine.”

“Won’t that be a timeline problem?” Ray asks.

“Ask yourself if Grey cares,” Jax says wryly.

“This information’s good,” Hex grunts, ignoring them. “Based on this, I know where the Stillwater gang is holed up. We can go get ‘em.”

They go pick up more guns and a set of horses, some of which come from gang members they’d beaten up earlier. 

Len – who’s already armed – leads his horse out to the area behind the stables to practice getting up on it. He’s not that familiar with the mechanics of horseback riding and he’s not particularly pleased about the idea of practicing in front of a judging audience.

“Pardon me,” Grace says from behind him as Len swings himself onto the horse the way people do in the movies – one leg in the stirrup, then up and over. It works pretty well, likely thanks to how tall he is. 

Attempt to climb giant beast, successful. Go Len!

Oh, wait, giant beast is moving, what the _fuck_. 

Not good, not good, not good!

Okay, gripping with the legs seems to work –

“Regarding your offer of life…?” Grace says, coughing a little.

“Sorry, yes,” Len says. “Gimme a minute, this – okay, whoa, whoa, boy! – this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Have you never ridden a horse before?” she asks, distracted.

“Not unless you count carousel horses,” Len says. “And one traumatic near-riding experience when I was younger, but that didn’t actually ever go anywhere.”

That seems to put her off a bit. “I see,” she says. “Regardless, I wanted to talk about your earlier offer.”

“Sure thing,” Len says. “Tell me, what is it that you’d like to do with –”

“Len!” Mick shouts from the front of the stable. “We’re riding out!”

“Damnit,” Len says. He hasn’t entirely figured out ‘go’. “Sorry, Grace,” he tells her. “We’ll talk about it later.”

He tries kicking at the horse’s sides.

Lo and behold, it works! He is achieving forward motion!

“City boy,” Mick sniggers when he sees him.

“Shut up,” Len says cheerfully. He’s in way too good a mood to let little things (like Mick’s perfect form on a horse) get to him. “We going to get them?”

“Hell yes,” Jax says.

“Where’s Stein?” Mick asks. 

“Still with the medicine,” Jax says. “It’s fine; Rip took the time to swing by and re-emphasize how much we really _shouldn’t_ be using any future tech or anything.”

“Well, if I get shot, I’d appreciate some future tech healing me,” Len drawls. “So, you know, don’t take him too much to heart.”

“Got it, boss,” Jax says with a grin. 

“Y’all gonna keep flapping your mouths or you gonna come do some real good?” Hex asks.

“Flapping, clearly,” Mick says. “Speaking of doing 'good', how much of a bounty you gonna get from these guys, again?”

Hex glares.

“We’re allied for the sake of the town,” Len says. “You still haven’t given us a reason to like you, Mr. Confederacy; remember that. Let’s go.”

They ride forth. 

At one point, Len notices when he turns to say something to Mick that Grace is still standing where he left her. That’s strange.

Then Ray comments that it would’ve been nice to have Sara on this mission and Hex replies with something offensive about their “fillies”, apparently referring to Sara and Kendra wandering off on their own, and Len has to turn back to stop Hex from getting shot by the more progressive members of their little group, and he forgets all about it.

“Time-era appropriateness,” Len reminds them. “Remember, just because he walks and talks like a racist stereotype doesn’t mean he’s actually as stupid as he comes off.”

“You fellows are real good company,” Hex growls.

“What, did Rip never mention any of this stuff?” Ray asks.

“No.”

“Look at me,” Len says. “Surprised that Rip Hunter managed to fail to mention something.”

Luckily, that manages to get a laugh out of the whole group, and tensions fade.

And then, because plans are apparently for idiots, not cowboys, Hex leads them straight _into_ the gang’s camp without giving them a chance to pause and talk strategy. 

Maybe he's where Rip got it from.

“Jeb Stillwater,” Ray announces in his most grandiose voice. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney –”

“There won’t be Miranda rights for another hundred years,” Len snaps. 

And that, unsurprisingly, is when the shooting starts.

There are a _lot_ more of the gang than there are of them. Len has his ghosts, though, and that would probably even the score –

“Don’t you dare, boss!” Mick calls to him. “Remember, no general-ing!”

Right. Len’s trying to avoid calling on large groups of ghosts. Need to ensure that he doesn’t try to take over the world.

Not that taking over the world as it exists in 1871 would be fun in any way other than to establish an iron-fisted progressive state…

No. None of that. 

Even if it _would_ be funny. 

“Fall back!” Hex shouts. “We have Stillwater! Fall back!”

They turn the horses around – some judicious yanking on the reins by Len helps convince his particular horse to think about turning, but the loud sounds of the guns helps incentive it even more, Len finds – and start getting out of there.

And then, just when he thinks they’re free and clear, a lasso flies out of the dark and loops around Jax, pulling him backwards off his horse.

“Jax!” Ray shouts.

“We’ve got to go!” Hex shouts in return.

“Not without Jax!” Len bellows.

“We got Stillwater! We’ve got leverage over ‘em, we can trade him back to the gang in exchange for your buddy,” Hex argues. “Live to fight another day or die tonight.”

“Fuck that,” Mick says. “Boss?”

“Go get him, Mick,” Len says, glaring at Hex. "Jax is _black_ , you asshole; they might just lynch him before daybreak on the grounds that no one would bother trading a man worth a bounty for a black man." 

Mick jumps off of his horse – damn, his form is good; you could film a movie of just that and Len would be entranced – and sprints back towards the gang.

“Your friend’s gonna die,” Hex tells Len.

“Oddly enough,” Len drawls, “I don’t think that’s gonna be the case. C’mon, let’s get Stillwater back to the ship.”

He doesn't want to trust Ray alone with this guy - less because he thinks Hex will pull something, and more because he thinks Hex will successfully talk a still-too-trusting Ray into something stupid. 

They’re about halfway there, Len hanging back from the others a bit because his horse seems to be intent on moving at a slow walk instead of a trot and all the kicking in the world doesn’t seem to be helping, when Grace appears right in his way.

Len grabs instinctively at the reins, making the horse buck and him swear. 

"Grace, what is it?" he asks. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, you can help me quite a bit," she says. "You know how. Your life."

"I told you –"

"Later," she hisses. "Oh, yes, later, always later – well, I'm tired of waiting for a later that will never come!"

Oh, _shit_.

Len throws himself to the side, leaping off the horse and rolling badly onto the ground as she reaches for him, her eyes glowing white. She's only a minor poltergeist – he should be able to hold her off until –

Someone grabs at Len's shoulder.

Len wrenches himself away, twisting sharply to break their grip, but not before he feels that awful nauseating sensation of his life being sucked out of him by force.

Unquiet dead.

Len puts his back to a tree, even though he knows it won't help.

It's not just Grace, either; it's the whole group of them that she introduced the second time she came to him – the time when James was strangely absent –

"You gathered up _unquiet dead_ ," Len says, and has to leap to the side as one of them charges him. He escapes that one, but another grabs him by the hip, scooping out another handful of life. "What happened to James?"

"He didn't agree," Grace says, her pretty face still twisted in anger. "He didn't understand – for people with power, it's later – always _later_ –"

"Not that I don't sympathize with that notion," Len says, hissing and ducking forward when another ghost's arm comes through the tree to gouge out more life from his back. "But if you keep up with this, you're gonna kill me!"

"So be it," Grace says indifferently.

"Damnit, if you just waited a _little_ , I'd be happy to give you assholes what you wanted!" Len snarls and looks around. Hex and Ray are gone, with Stillwater. Mick is rescuing Jax. 

He reaches inside himself for his power, intending on calling up some friendlies, but Grace herself darts forward and slams her arm right into his belly.

The sheer wrongness of it knocks the breath out of his body.

"Don't call for more of us," she says. "There's more than enough of us here already. Don't let him speak!"

And then they're on him, ghostly fingers scrabbling at him, hurting him, bearing him down the ground, pulling at him, and Len has a lot of power now, more than he ever did before, but he's still not an endless sieve of it.

"Stop!" he hears someone call. 

"James!" Grace hisses. 

And then the friendlies come – few of them, very few, damnit, he's too new to this era, he shared willingly with too few of them; he should have listened to Mick – and they wade in to help him, pulling the unquiet dead off of him.

But they're slow and he's getting weaker, and he doesn't want to risk Jax's life but he doesn't want to risk his own, either.

"Mick," he croaks, pushing ghostly fingers away from his mouth. "Mick!"

The second one came off as more of a gurgle than a proper yell.

"Mick!"

That was better, louder. Still not much – but then, Mick didn't need Len to be that loud.

"Shut up!" Grace screams, and shoves her hands into his chest. "Shut up and give it to us!"

"Get your goddamn hands off of him," Mick's blessedly familiar voice roars.

He's come.

"Mick," Len says, or tries to. His tongue is too thick for his mouth. He's slurring.

He's dying.

There are too many of them.

Mick roars above his head. The sound is filled with pain - not just pain at Len dying, but his own pain, pain of the unquiet dead lashing out at him. 

If Len dies of the grasping hands, of the fire in his brain, of the choking death, Mick will be left alone.

_No_.

"Come," Len gasps, throwing his power out where his voice does not reach. "Come and fight for me."

And they come, his dead, his legions, his friendly followers, they come to him, they come for him, they come to fight on his behalf. 

The dead of the war between the states, the dead of the clashes between the tribes and the white men who came ever onwards, the dead of the West –

They come to him, howling in rage.

And they rip the unquiet dead off of him, tear them off, and he can breathe free again.

His hands are clenching, his back arching, his muscles spasming, his legs kicking – 

But he can breathe. 

Len sucks in the air, filling his lungs. He ignores the shouts and screams of the dead around him, clashing against each other. It means less than nothing; _his_ dead will take care of it.

His Mick will take care of it.

"– boss! Boss!"

Len opens his eyes. He's lying on the cold, dark ground, his back propped against a tree. Why?

There's a young black man kneeling above him, concern in his eyes. His hands are outstretched. He does not appear to be a threat, but he is not one of Len's ghosts. 

"What?" Len rasps.

"How you doing?" the young man asks. "You okay?"

Such an inane question. Where are Len's ghosts? They will help him without badgering him.

"Where," Len says, but the strength fails him. His ghosts, he needs his ghosts – his legions –

"Lenny?" someone else asks. "You okay?"

Len sneers. What a stupid question. Of course he's not! And this, to come from one of his own, no less. He needs his ghosts, to come to him, to defend him –

"Lisa needs you."

It takes a second to register, but when it does, Len's belly seizes up with fear. Not Lisa, no – 

He looks up. Jax and Mick are looking down at him.

"Where," he starts, trying to convey the urgency, that he needs to find her, help her, protect her – then he thinks about it for more than half a second. "When?"

Mick exhales and crouches down. "Good to have you back, boss."

"What?"

"You sure he's back?" Jax asks. "He hasn't even moved as far as 'how'."

Len painfully uncurls a finger in his right hand. Just one.

Jax laughs. "Okay, yeah, he's back." He reaches forward and clasps Len's shoulder for a moment. "Don't scare us like that, okay? We've only got one of you, boss."

Then he stands and walks off.

Len looks after him in confusion. Then he looks at Mick in question. 

Mick shakes his head. "You lost yourself for a few minutes there. Megalomania. Not just that, though; it was worse than before. You forgot – everything. Even Jax."

Len swallows. 

"It's okay. We got you back."

"Thanks," Len says. He swallows again, sitting up, though he needs Mick's arm to do it. "I'm back."

"I know." Mick's voice is fond. Concerned, yes, but fond. 

"What happened?"

"Well, Ray and Hex got Stillwater back to town without noticing you’d fallen behind, the Waverider is now guarded by what feels like a full on legion of invisible ghosts, the Stillwater gang has notably increased its respect for and belief in the supernatural nature of this forest, and I think they're going to challenge us to a duel at high noon. For the town. Way for ‘em to save face before getting the hell out of Dodge."

"Not Ray."

"No, don't worry. No one is so stupid as that. Rip'll do it."

"And?"

"And I'll keep an eye from a distance."

"Good."

"You, on the other hand, will be spending some quality time with Gideon's med bay. That was the nastiest attack we've had in years."

"How many?"

"Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. First you nearly died, _then_ you went all megalomaniac on us for a bit…It was bad, Lenny."

That sounded bad.

"Well, I survived," Len says, shaking his head even as he stands up and starts walking, very gingerly, towards the ship. "And I wasn't on a horse. So, you know, you win that argument."

"What argu—wait. You mean the one about you not being safe behind the wheel? I can't believe you even _remember_ that."

"I remember when someone warns me about the dangers of falling off a horse," Len says. "Especially shortly after I have to jump off of one."

"Technically, you jumped off of one to avoid falling off of one during an attack –"

"That doesn't make you right."

They bicker all the way through the camps – literal camps, because you can take the man out of the army but apparently he’ll bring along his tent – of ghosts guarding the Waverider. They're almost at the ramp when Len hears it.

"—Snart!" a distant voice calls. " _Grazhdanin_ Snart! I must speak with him!"

Len frowns. _Grazhdanin_ is the Russian word for fellow-citizen; even if 1980s Russia hadn't featured it pretty heavily, old Vanya back in Iron Heights, an old Russian gangster who'd protected Len from his dad in one of his earlier stints in the can and taught him all the Russian he knows, had taught it to him early on. 

"What is it, boss?" Mick asks.

"Exactly how many Russian communists would you expect there to be in the Wild West?" Len asks.

Mick frowns as well.

Len turns. "Let me see who it is," he calls, and his voice doesn't even go into echoes, good. 

"I don't like this," Mick grumbles. "Maybe they're up to something."

"You'll stop them if they are."

The ghosts part and another ghost hurries through, aiming right for him.

A woman, powerful but weary, in a great big peacoat and a rifle –

" _Svetlana_?" Len exclaims.

"You know her?" Mick asks, surprised. 

"Yes, we spoke – but that was in Russia. In _1985_. How could she be here? Now? And still know my name? I mean, even if she wasn't so obviously a Night Witch from World War II, she's _Russian_ -"

"I'd like an answer to all that," Mick says, lips pressed together. "I've had enough nasty surprises."

" _Grazhdanin_ Snart," Svetlana says, coming close. "I have found you! I began to fear – but no matter. I have an update."

"What's the update?" Len asks. "And while we're at it, how did you get here? To this time, to this place?"

"The two answers are related," she says. "I took you at your word and followed the man in Moscow – Master Druce, his comrades call him."

Len blinks. "Wait," he says. "You followed him..?"

"I entered his ship, or rather, those of his three servants," Svetlana confirms. "It repelled me, but I persisted."

"Well _done_ Svetlana," Len says, impressed. Even Mick, the only other ghost Len knows to have been willing to enter a time ship for more than a few moments, looks impressed by it. 

She flashes a quick smile. "Thank you, _Grazhdanin_. But more important: they have followed you here."

"Of course they have," Mick growls. "Funny how Rip's hiding spot turned out not to be all that great for hiding."

"They suspected he would come here," Svetlana confirms. "He was here in the past; he has an attachment to the place. They have come here and plan to ambush you during the duel."

"Duel – the shootout at high noon?"

"Yes, yes, that. But there is more: they have changed orders. They are to kill you now."

"They weren't trying to before?" Mick asks.

"No," Svetlana says. She sounds very sure. "Not to kill. Only to chase."

"To capture, you mean," Len says.

"No," Svetlana says. "To chase only. They say this is an operation; they rely upon Rip Hunter to guide you."

"Hold up. He's with them?" Len asks, alarmed. If that's the case, they're screwed – and Len isn't the judge of character he thought he was –

But Svetlana is shaking her head. "No," she says. "It's a plot. A sting. He does what they expect. Only – they did not expect you to come so close to succeeding. Too dangerous." 

"Close to succeeding," Len says. "You mean – in the 50s, when we nearly got Savage? They don't want us to kill Savage?"

"Makes sense," Mick opines. "What with them not wanting to change the timeline and firing Rip and all that."

"But then what's the sting part of it?" Len asks. "Why let Rip – why let us – do what we're doing? Why chase instead of kill or capture right off the bat?"

"Maybe we're not supposed to kill him until the moment is right?" Mick suggests. 

"Then why’d they decide to kill us now?" Len scowls. "Something stinks."

“Stinks or not is unimportant,” Svetlana says impatiently. “The Hunters are going after the others _now_.”

Len looks at Mick. Mick looks back.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Mick says.

“We’ll need all the help we can get to fight them, if they're that tough,” Len points out.

“We will _not_ ,” Mick says, crossing his arms and glaring the way he does when he's really serious about something. “You are going to stay on the Waverider and get your brain looked at to make sure there wasn’t any damage. I’m gonna go warn the others –”

“But –”

“Boss. I’ll take half of the _ghostly army_ we’ve got on our doorstep with me, okay? But I don’t think we’ll even need ‘em. If we’re prepared for these Hunter assholes, we can ambush them with just the forces we've got.”

Len thinks about protesting, but his head is hurting and he still feels vaguely cotton-mouthed. He probably won’t be of much use even in the best case scenario. Still… “If you need help –” 

“I’ll send a ghost,” Mick promises. “So that you can get Gideon to come blast them from the sky. But trust me – you won’t need to.”

“Fine,” Len grumbles, conceding the point, and finally climbs onto the Waverider. “Gideon,” he says, once inside. “I need a brain scan.”

“Certainly, Mr. Snart,” Gideon says, sounding somewhat puzzled. “Is there a particular reason?”

“How familiar are you with the symptoms of epilepsy…?”


	39. 38

“For the last time, the Time Masters are not in league with Savage!” Rip shouts.

“Seems like a reasonable conclusion to me,” Len says from where he’s perched on the main console. He’s in a good mood: Gideon gave him the all clear - about his brain, anyway, she said something totally unnecessary about his joints - and even Mick can’t justifiably make him stay out of the next fight. 

He's still a touch annoyed about having to miss the last one, though by all accounts, the fight against the Hunters ended up being intensely anticlimactic. 

Thanks to Mick’s warning, the Legends were able to position themselves appropriately to attack once the Hunters showed up, which the Hunters had not been expecting. It’d been a pretty well-planned ambush, too: Kendra and Firestorm from the air; Ray darting forward out of Rip’s pocket, already shrunken; Mick and Sara leading a charge from behind them. Mick and Sara had planned it while Rip focused on winning the shoot-out with the Stillwater leader, acting, of course, on behalf of “Sheriff Wayne”. The Stillwater gang was barely there, many of them practically salivating at the thought of getting out of town the second their leader had sufficiently saved face, and they hadn’t exactly been shy about their plans, either. Or about the stories of a ghostly clash straight out of the Civil War, two battalions of shrieking spirits clashing in battle with each other in the middle of the night, the screams of the dead running up the spines of the living and making them unable to find their rest. 

Len made a point to exit the room every time someone talked about those stories with a grin on their face. He was getting enough ribbing about this from Mick, thank you, he didn't need it from the rest of them. 

Even that minor disaster turned out to be for the best: it was those stories, which the townspeople assumed (not entirely incorrectly) were instigated by “Sheriff Wayne” and his companions, that ultimately convinced the townspeople that the threat of the Stillwater gang was gone for good, and indeed the second the bullets left each man’s hand – Jeb Stillwater, spitting and cursing his whole gang as fools to the last, determined to maintain his power – the rest of the gang retreated at top speed, not even bothering to wait for the result. And it was the townspeople, seeing the Hunters take advantage of the “distraction” of the battle, that decided to rally in defense of the Legends, each one of them, young and old, man or woman, grabbing their guns and charging into battle against the Stormtroopers Three in the defense of the heroes that saved their town.

Terrible 19th century guns, of course, but _damn_ if the townspeople didn’t have a lot of them. 

It was the townspeople’s attack that actually made the final difference in the fight against the Hunters, who had been well equipped with armor to shield them from Firestorm’s flames or Sara’s staff weapons, and who’d known all about Kendra’s wings and Ray’s shrinking ability. But the Hunters had been unsure of a given townsperson’s position in the timestream, whether or not they would later prove to be important, whether or not they had authorization from their masters to end a given life, and as a result they hesitated before firing. 

Those hesitations proved fatal, in the end. 

“I’m telling you, the Time Masters are sworn to protect the timeline,” Rip says. He sounds a bit testy, but that could also just be the sound of someone doggy-paddling down the river of denial. “I acknowledge that they are hunting us down, but that is because they are devoted to their mission of keeping the timeline as it _is_ , not – not _colluding_ with a _tyrant_ to achieve some sort of corrupt objective! And, let me remind you, these people used to be my colleagues - my friends - and they most certainly they did not conspire to _kill my family_.”

Yep, denial. Len can't really blame him. 

“Svetlana said it was a sting,” Len points out. 

“Oh, yes, _Svetlana_ ,” Rip says, scowling at Len. “The young woman you apparently convinced to stow away on the Hunters' ship and _eavesdrop_ on them. Do you have any conception how _dangerous_ that was?”

“She’s fine,” Len says, rolling his eyes. “And the fact that it was dangerous doesn’t mean that her information is _wrong_.” Svetlana had taken Len’s offer of enough life to be solid for a while - she'd enjoyed that quite a bit, and she'd enjoyed showing off how solid she was now when she came to the Waverider to tell her story, which Len had requested on behalf of (and at the request of) Stein; the guy'd never gotten used to the ghosts and preferred to only see them while solid. She'd left afterwards, deciding to return to her own era using the Hunters’ ship, and she'd promised to destroy it once she was back in her proper timeline. Len highly suspects some very lucky Russian kid is going to get a few trips in that ship before it goes to its final resting place - assuming Svetlana does bother going back to her own time instead of taking the ship for a joyride the way Len totally would if he wasn't deeply, heartily sick of time travel. “And remember, she told us that the Stormtroopers Three originally had orders to chase but not kill us, and that they were counting on you to react exactly the way you did. That sounds like someone's pulling your strings.”

“The only reason you started this whole thing was because your family died,” Sara points out, though she has more sympathy in her face than Len does. “You have to at least consider the possibility, Rip.”

Rip scowls.

“Indeed, you said yourself that they objected to the idea that a Time Master have a family at all,” Stein points out. “They might not have considered killing them to be such a great loss - after all, organizations which believe very strongly in their ideals have been known to be ruthless…”

“Particularly when it comes to people trying to disobey,” Kendra says.

“I would appreciate it if you would all stop making it sound like my former employers were a crazy cult, if you would be so kind,” Rip says through gritted teeth. “The Time Masters are dedicated, yes, and ruthless, at times, but it is all in defense of the timeline. They would not violate that responsibility: that is a sacred duty to them..”

“That sounds a little bit cult-y,” Ray says. “You have to admit that, at least. Kendra has a point.”

Kendra smiles weakly. She’s not sitting next to Ray; she’s been acting squirrelly ever since they left the West.

Len notices the stronger shade at her feet and make a mental note to tell her about that the second he can get her alone. He keeps forgetting about it, and it doesn’t help that she's been avoiding him – she’s been doing that ever since he and Mick had their argument. Len’s not sure why, though upon mental review of some of her comments at the time, he’s started to suspect that she, like Stein, had thought he’d done some harm to Mick, maybe banished him or forced him into invisibility or something, and now that she knew it wasn’t the case, she was hideously embarrassed about it. 

Absurd, of course; he’ll have to make that clear. He and Mick sometimes get into it with each other, with their words or with their fists, that much is true, but they’ve never _really_ hurt each other. They wouldn't. 

Besides, a few missteps aside, Len vows to himself that he’ll never use his power like that on any ghost, much less Mick. The ghosts might come to his call, but they're not his to command; they’re people. People with thoughts and feelings and desires, and Len is _privileged_ to be able to ask their assistance in return for his life. To send them away at his will, without considering their views on the subject, to command them to do anything without obtaining their agreement first, is tantamount to abuse, in his view - a fact he has been dwelling on more and more now that his power has grown so great that he can summon full-scale armies to come to him even when he’s under attack by the unquiet dead.

Len doesn’t want to be a general, damnit. That implies way too much control. 

Way too much like a necromancer.

Which he is _not_.

“I assure you, the Time Masters' actions may appear confusing without the appropriate context –” Rip is saying.

“Not confusing,” Sara says with a shrug. “Just, you know. Evil. That Druce guy did try to lure you into a trap and kill you back in Russia, remember?”

“He was doing what he thought was best,” Rip says stubbornly. “At any rate, it doesn’t _matter_ for our immediate purposes if their motives are good or evil - even if that were in question, which it is _not_ \- the simple fact is, they have decided that we are now a serious threat to the timeline and must be eliminated. We have to focus on that threat from them.”

Len sighs a bit. Rip's not wrong, but he's deliberately putting on blinders as to the Time Masters - any other threat, and he'd be insisting that they analyze the enemy to get insight into their actions, but here, he refuses. 

Again, Len can't blame him, but it's a little annoying that the best source of information they have about the Time Masters has chosen now to do his best impression of a tight-lipped clam. 

Mick managed to extract some information from the Stormtroopers Three before they all died, at least. Not as much as he could have, unfortunately; Mick had assumed, quite reasonably given their incomplete task and Len’s presence in the vicinity, that they would appear as ghosts shortly after they expired and that he could continue interrogating them then. 

They didn’t.

That fact led to dark thoughts in its own right, since one of the reasons a ghost would choose to automatically pass on was because they were relieved to be free of their task - or of life, generally. Rip protested very strongly against the possibility that the Hunters were recruited by force into the job, when Mick asked him about it - Rip pointed to their willing and vicious hunts, like viciousness meant anything to someone who had no choice in the matter – but he conceded that he didn’t know how, exactly, the Hunters were paid or where they came from. That wasn’t necessary Time Master knowledge, apparently, or at least not at his level. 

Mick hadn’t liked the idea of fighting people forced into the job, he’d confided in Len, but he also conceded that he didn’t think they could have found another way to stop them from passing on. As a ghost himself, Mick is very firmly against forcing anyone to stay around any longer than they wanted to. 

As a result, though, they only had the information the Hunters had spat out before they’d died. And that information…

“Tell us again about this Pilgrim person,” Len says, cutting off Rip’s incipient speech that, yet again, the Time Masters were saintly and self-sacrificing and, yes, ruthless sonofabitch assholes, but only for the Greater Good or whatever. Honestly, he was only managing to convince everyone else on board that the Time-Masters-as-a-cult theory had some truth behind it. “And these Omega protocols that they mentioned.”

“The Pilgrim is the Time Masters’ most deadly assassin,” Rip says, looking about as relieved as everyone else to get off the immediate subject and onto the more relevant one. “She will hunt down our younger selves and eliminate them in order to stop us.”

“So how does that work exactly?” Sara asks. "Simpler words this time, please."

“In summary: if your younger self is killed, you disappear from the timeline now and all of the effects of your actions are erased,” Rip says grimly. “It’s as if you’ve never done any of those things - which, of course, you didn't, since you'd died by that point in the new timeline. The Pilgrim will pick key moments from each of our lives, the moments when we were most vulnerable, and go after us then.”

“That’s not good,” Kendra says. “That’s _very_ not good.”

“No, it’s not,” Rip says. “You are immune, Miss Saunders, due to your reincarnations, and there are protections on my younger self as a result of my Time Master training. But the rest of you…” He shakes his head. “The Pilgrim will find a moment where you nearly died, or could have died, a moment where the timeline is favorable for your removal. She will kill you. You will die by dissolving into a shower of sparks, and it will be as though you never continued past that moment. We will all forget that you were ever a part of our team.”

He looks seriously concerned, which doesn’t bode well. Len likes to think that he’s gotten pretty good at reading Rip’s strange mix of competent space pilot, incompetent people manager, and ruthless exploitation of opportunities even at a high cost - sure, Rip's been getting better about that, but it seems old Time Master habits die hard. At least he's pretty sure that Rip is actually worried about them as people right now, rather than just as pawns in his fight against Savage. 

“How long do we have to save each person?” Stein asks, looking concerned. “Is this like the instance with Clarissa?”

“What instance?” Mick asks.

“Ah, you wouldn’t have noticed, Mr. Rory, as you weren’t there, but I – er – nearly erased my marriage from existence by distracting my younger self at a key moment when I would have otherwise met my wife.”

“That stinks,” Mick says.

“Indeed,” Stein says, though he looks pained by the way Mick phrased it. “My wedding ring disappeared, and I began to forget she had ever been part of my life – and my life was far, far less satisfying as a result.”

“And that might happen to us?” Len asks, now increasingly concerned himself. He can think of plenty of moments in his past where he nearly died. 

Every unquiet dead attack he’s ever had, for instance. 

If the Pilgrim attacks him early enough, she might cut him off from Lisa, and that’s unacceptable, even as a risk. Leaving Lisa alone with Lewis...

“That’s correct, Mr. Snart,” Rip says. “If your younger self is killed, or the timeline of your life changed in a major fashion, we will have very little time to save you – any effect that major would begin to impact you within hours, if not less time than that. If you are killed, you may begin to disappear; if your life is changed in a radical fashion, then your memories will become altered almost immediately.”

“But there is an opportunity to change the result, correct?” Stein says.

“Yes; as we saw with your marriage, Professor, the timeline takes time to settle – and, of course, as I have told you repeatedly, time wants to happen, so we will have time on our side -"

"For once," Jax says with a sigh.

"- in attempting to prevent your younger selves' deaths, if it comes to that. But our best opportunity to fix things will be in saving your younger selves _before_ the Pilgrim has an opportunity to kill them…Gideon, tell me you’ve located the Pilgrim’s ship.”

“I have a lock, Captain,” Gideon reports. “Star City, 2007. She’s targeting Miss Lance.”

“Wait, _2007_? That’s _before_ I went on the boat with Oliver,” Sara says, alarmed. “I thought you said the Pilgrim would go after us when we were most likely to have died. Wouldn’t, I don’t know, my multiple _near drownings_ be a better option?”

“On the contrary,” Rip says, “the Pilgrim is going to choose a moment when your death would have had the least effect on the timeline, not necessarily when you were most likely to have died. The events that occurred with you and Mr. Queen significantly impacted his life and therefore your importance to it, while if you hadn’t gotten on that boat at all - say, because you had already died - someone else would have, and they would have been the one nearly drowning, and it would be _their_ lives bound up with Mr. Queen’s, not yours, thereby reducing the damage done by eliminating you from the timeline.”

“You’ve put a little too much thought into this,” Jax says. 

“I am a Time Master,” Rip says. “It is rather my area of expertise. Regardless, it is clear that we cannot let the Pilgrim reach the younger Miss Lance.”

“Most certainly not,” Stein says. “Miss Lance is a colleague and, I would hope, a friend. We will do whatever is necessary to defend her.”

“Aw, Stein, I’m touched,” Sara says with a smile that's more sincere than she intended it to be. “You like me, you really like me.”

Stein smiles at her. “As it happens, Miss Lance, I do.”

She flushes a bit, but she’s smiling. 

“Miss Lance, can you recall what you might have been doing in 2007?” Rip asks, mission-focused as ever. “Any time your life was in danger, anything that you can give us to help us focus down on where and when the Pilgrim might try to strike?”

“Lemme think,” Sara says. “2007…not that exciting a year, really. Wait! I went with my dad to his job. Take Your Daughter To Work day, even though I was _way_ too old for it. He decided it’d be funny to lock me in handcuffs, and then someone broke out of the cells and fired off a few shots. Nearly started a stampede of people panicking, but I couldn’t run away. It was, uh, pretty scary, being stuck like that. After that, my dad taught me all the tricks of picking handcuffs to get out of them.” She shrugs. “Knowing that trick definitely helped me going forward. That’s all I can think of.”

“Then we will go straight there. Gideon!”

They arrive at the police station just as the shooting starts. The police are running around, trying to get to their service weapons, their batons, anything; they hadn’t been expecting an attack in the middle of their precinct. Through the crowd, Len can see a teenage blonde girl hiding behind a table, her hand handcuffed to it; she’s tugging fiercely at it. The shooter, a burly man with the look of a drug user in his eye, is waving a gun in the air, but even as Len looks at him, the man is in turn shot down by –

“Trinity from the Matrix?” Len says incredulously.

She doesn’t look at him, which suggests this is not, in fact, a hallucination of some weirdly specific pop-culture sort. The Pilgrim – Len assumes it’s the Pilgrim – is a tall Asian woman, wearing skin-tight vinyl with extra leather straps in various places. Despite the kinky get-up, she’s also a lot more military in her posture than anyone else here, and she walks confidently through a police station filled with shouting and shooting cops without a trace of concern, an era-appropriate gun clenched in her fingerless-gloved hand. 

Weird, but sure. Len’s not – okay, yes, he’s judging. Just a bit. 

He can't help it. It's like she's escaped from a comic convention circa the mid-2000s.

Wait - maybe she's trying to blend in and something's gone horribly wrong?

“Get her!” Rip shouts, and Len reminds himself that thinking up amusing scenarios can wait until _after_ they finish saving Sara's life. 

“I’ve got point!” Sara shouts, and dives forward first with her staffs, Len at her shoulder, his gun at ready, Mick a step behind.

Sara hits the Pilgrim dead on, staffs against fists; the Pilgrim fights back with a vicious smirk, her hands flying just as fast as Sara’s, knocking her down once, twice, but every time it looks like Sara might get pinned, Len shoots a burst of cold at the Pilgrim’s back, forcing her to dodge and lose her grip. 

“Get out of here!” Mick is shouting at the cops, even as he breaks the handcuffs keeping younger Sara in place. “Get out! Go, go, go!”

“Bring her,” Rip shouts. “The girl, bring her with you!”

“ _What_?” Sara yells. 

“No time! Just do it! _Now_!”

Sara kicks the Pilgrim in the face, making her stagger back.

“Holy crap,” younger Sara says, staring at Sara. “She’s…”

“Quite the badass,” Mick cuts in before recognition can set in. Younger Sara has got to be eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty; the physical differences between her and their nearly-thirty-year-old version of Sara aren’t so large as any of them would like. Still, there’s no time to question Rip’s orders – Len would _really like to_ , but he has to assume Rip knows something he hasn’t shared, _again_ , and therefore that there’s a good reason to take the young version of Sara with them. He nods at Mick, who nods back. “C’mon, kid, follow me.”

The Pilgrim hisses in rage, but turns – on her _ridiculously_ impractical heels, which don’t seem to damage her fighting ability at all but _still_ – and ducks out of the fray before Len or Sara can land any more blows.

Sara and Len exchange glances. They could go after her –

But even as they watch, the second she’s out the door, she glimmers and disappears, the same way the Waverider does. Some sort of cloaking device, like the ship – they’ll never find her.

And there’s a lot of Starling City police all around starting to calm down and realize what’s going on. 

They high-tail it out of there. 

“What’s the big idea, taking her with us?” Sara asks Rip when they catch up with him. Mick has gone ahead with young Sara to the ship. Len’s glad she asked, because otherwise he would, and he’d be a lot less polite about it.

“The Pilgrim has a limited window of opportunity to capture or kill our young selves,” Rip says, rubbing his face - he looks tired, which means his omission here was probably less planned and more accidental return to habit. “Unfortunately, this window is temporal: she has a certain amount of time, starting from her first attempt. As a result, it is imperative we take the younger versions of ourselves away from their timelines so that she cannot make a second attempt. Once we have defeated her, we can return them to the timeline safely.”

“With the memory of the Waverider?” Len asks skeptically. 

“Yeah, I thought you said you didn’t have any amnesia-causing doohickeys,” Ray says. 

“No doohickeys, no,” Rip says. “But Gideon has pills which can cause drowsiness and short-term amnesia; we can return your younger self to her timeline without any major impact.”

Sara’s eyebrows go up. “You’re saying you’re going to _roofie_ younger me?”

“Unless you have a better suggestion, Miss Lance…” Rip starts, but the second they get back onto the Waverider an alarm is blaring. “Gideon?”

“Captain, the Pilgrim has left this timezone,” Gideon reports. “Now that she knows that you are planning on countering her, I believe she’s hoping to make her next target before we can figure out who it is.”

“Where is her ship going, then?”

“That’s the problem, Captain; her ship is compensating for my ability to track it even as we speak. I suspect I will be able to follow her to one more destination, maybe two, but likely no further, and she is intent on losing us.”

“Follow her anyway,” Rip says. “We need another approach.”

“What about –” Ray starts, then gags, choking on air and falling to the ground. 

“Haircut!” Mick says, coming back from wherever he’s stashed the young Sara. “What’s going on?”

“Gideon!” Rip shouts.

“Running the scan now.”

Ray screams again, arching on his back. Kendra screams, too, running forward and dropping to her knees beside him. 

“Gideon!” Rip bellows.

“I’m detecting a temporal anomaly on December 19, 2014, in the vicinity of Palmer Technologies – still in Star City.”

“My lab,” Ray says, panting, pulling up his shirt. There are bruises forming on his skin. Kendra touches them with a shaky hand, her eyes wide and horrified. “I’d just gotten the idea for the ATOM suit – no one knew who I was – there was almost an explosion -”

“This is fucking _creepy_ ,” Len says grimly, staring at the marks of a beating being administered remotely. Yeah, it's official, time travel is his new least favorite thing, second to the unquiet dead. And mediums. Okay, it's his _third_ least favorite thing, but it’s rising pretty quickly in the ranks. 

This trip just keeps getting better and better.

“I don’t disagree, Mr. Snart,” Stein says. “Jefferson! No time to rest.”

They make it to Ray’s lab just in time – the younger Ray, only a few years younger than their version, has been tossed around a bit, running through his lab trying to escape the Pilgrim’s laser guns. Just as Len suspected, that's the reason for his older self’s bruises. 

“They’re pretty cool,” younger Ray gasps as he ducks another laser blast. “But, y’know, not when they’re aimed at me.”

“Get in shape,” Sara tells him. 

“Is that man on _fire_?” Ray says, looking behind her.

“Get him out of here!” Rip shouts as the Pilgrim blasts Firestorm into the next room over, forcing the two of them to separate with groans of pain. “Go! Now!”

Len and Mick grab the younger Ray, one arm each, and hustle him back to the ship. Rip, Sara, Stein and Jax follow them a moment later.

“No luck?” Len asks. 

“Lost her again,” Sara says grimly. “I’m starting to _really_ not like this girl.”

“Her ship is taking off, Captain!” Gideon shouts the second they get on board.

“After her!” Rip exclaims.

“Captain, I haven’t had a chance to complete the temporal scan –”

“It doesn’t matter! Just _follow her ship_!”

They don’t even have time to strap in as Gideon takes off in the Waverider, and Len stumbles backwards into the wall when they make the jump without warning, gasping in pain as he hits his arm on the console there. 

“Len!” Mick is at his side.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Len says through gritted teeth. “Dislocation. I think. Nothing Gideon won’t be able to fix anyway.”

Maybe she had a point about his joints needing some work. 

“C’mon, we’re getting you patched up,” Mick says, then looks over at the equally bruised Firestorm duo. “Sara –”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got this one,” Sara says. “Ray, Rip and I will go and snatch whoever it is before the Pilgrim gets them. Speed, not force. You get Leonard, Stein, and Jax to the medical bay and watch the ship. Jax, Stein, when you're done, get us ready for our next jump. If it’s as bad as that last one, it’s not going to be good.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jax says groggily.

Len nods and goes to the medical bay, Mick tagging along behind him. 

The younger Ray is there already, having presumably followed Gideon's instructions to get there. He's now asleep, his medical signs showing full vitality but – given his nearness in the timeline to the present Ray and his mechanical expertise – also showing that Gideon has temporarily put him into a medical coma to ensure he doesn’t start causing difficulty. 

Len hops into the chair. “Gideon, got a moment to spare from driving the ship for my arm and Jax and Stein’s…everything?” he asks as Jax and Stein stagger into their own chairs. 

“I am capable of multitasking, Mr. Snart,” Gideon says, her mechanical voice just the slightest bit pert. 

“I'm sure you are. Still, get them fixed up first - they need to help monitor the ship - and then turn to me,” Len says, making a face at the thought of yet another round of healing. He doesn’t like the feeling of bone and muscle reknitting itself back together, but he knows it’s helping him. There’s absolutely no reason that he has to look at it while it’s happening, though. “We’re going to need full force against the Pilgrim when we do go up against her.”

He waits until she’s gotten Jax and Stein back in order, the two of them fixing themselves up and scurrying out, then leans back and closes his eyes as the healing beams flow over him. 

When he opens them, he’s abruptly aware that something’s wrong.

Something’s missing.

Len sits up. He’s surprisingly free of any pain at the moment, which pleases him, but it doesn’t distract him from the feeling of wrongness. 

Something is _gone_. Something important. He’s not sure what, exactly, but something that he values, highly, is not where it should be. He doesn't know how he knows that, but he does; he can feel it, deep inside. Some instinct screaming out an alarm at full volume - if only he can understand what it means. 

Well, that won’t do. He focuses –

“Hey, update on the bridge,” a woman says from the door, interrupting him. Blond, dressed in white. “C’mon, everyone's being called.”

Len follows her, along with the other two people who are already standing by the door. No reason not to. 

“I hope that we are not needed for battle again already,” the older man, white with grey hair, says. "Between our last battle, and fixing the ship, I'm exhausted."

“Nah, Grey,” the young man, black and barely out of his teens, replies as they enter the bridge area. “Can’t you feel the ship? We’ve slowed down.”

“Indeed we have,” a man in a duster says. He’s British. “Although we succeeded in saving the young Mr. Rory, we have lost the Pilgrim’s trail. However, if it is any consolation, I believe she will not immediately pursue her next target. Three is typical for a first attempt; she won’t want to miss the remainder of her chances, so she'll take the time to plan her next assaults.”

“How did she repel Firestorm’s attacks?” the young woman in white asks. Now that Len looks at her closer, he can see that she’s a revenant. Interesting, and potentially useful. “Not to mention Ray’s lasers, in the most recent battle.”

“She has a temporal micromanipulation device,” the Brit says. “It permits her to control time in her immediate vicinity.”

“That’s fascinating,” the older man says.

“Not right now it’s not,” another man – tall, white, with dark hair – says, leaning forward. He’s sitting next to a black woman with highlighted hair. She’s low on life, and there’s a shade dancing at her feet. Strange, but not worthy of further investigation. “We need to put our heads together to figure out to stop the Pilgrim before she does any actual damage.”

“Indeed. Are we all accounted for?” the Brit says, looking around. “For instance, where’s Mr. Rory?”

They all look around, then, all together, look at Len.

Len arches his eyebrows. “What?”

“Well, Mr. Snart? You're the expert - where _has_ Mr. Rory gone?” the older man asks.

Len shrugs.

“That’s not really an answer, Snart,” the tall man says. He even rolls his eyes a bit, smiling like they have some shared joke or something. 

“No, it ain’t,” Len says, needled by the man’s condescension and presumption of intimacy. Enough of this nonsense; he reaches out with his mind and puts out the call he should have put out the second he noticed the absence. “But let me start with a question for you instead. Who, exactly, _is_ this Mr. Rory you're asking me about?”

They all stare at him. 

“Is that supposed to be…metaphorical? Or something?” the black woman asks.

“I don’t got any idea who you’re talking about,” Len says patiently. He can feel them coming; it won’t be much longer now. 

“Something has clearly gone horribly wrong,” the Brit says, sounding alarmed. “Gideon, we’ll need you to test Mr. Snart –”

“Oh, it’s a _Gideon_ system,” Len says, nodding to himself. “That makes this all much easier.”

“I beg your pardon?” the Brit says.

Len raises his hands and calls them forth with an effort, pulling them faster than they want to go, forcing them to make the difficult trip to reach them. It’s a struggle, of course – wherever they are now, they don’t want to come, or find it hard, but they cannot resist him. They never can. 

His dead.

His _servants_. 

They come to him in ones and twos, each one accompanied by a time wraith that hisses and whimpers at the sight of Len; that’s not so strange, given the methods he had to use to break them into obedience. Their presence suggests that they must be somewhere in the time stream, then – some of his newer servants had told him about it, and the time wraiths were functioning as ferrymen, bringing his dead to his side. 

“What’s going on?” the Brit shouts as his dead fill the room, translucent but visible, coming in through the walls. 

“He’s calling the ghosts!” the black man cries out. “I don’t know – boss, I thought you were trying to avoid doing that in any large numbers! What're you _doing_?”

“Calling the _what_ now?” the woman in white exclaims.

“The ghosts,” the older man says, backing away. “He’s calling them. I’m not sure why – I was under the impression they could not easily travel in the time stream without effort –”

“What ghosts?” the Brit exclaims. He’s echoed by the tall man and the black woman. 

“The _ghosts_ ,” the black kid says. “You know, Snart’s spooks? His ghosts! He can revive ghosts! That’s his whole thing!”

“I thought _Captain Cold_ was his whole thing,” the black woman hisses, her eyes wide with alarm. “You know, the parka, the cold gun, that whole thing?”

“Well, _yeah_ , but that’s just his shtick,” the kid says. “The ghosts is another part of what he does, his whole family thing; Cisco just didn’t know about it soon enough to put it in the name.”

“Cisco?” one of Len’s ghosts asks. Unusual for them to speak out of turn, but Len doesn't really care. “You know Cisco?”

“Sure I know – holy crap, _Barry_?!” the kid exclaims. “Barry, what – you’re a _ghost_?! You _died_? When did that happen?!”

“Of course he died,” Len says, his lips quirking up the slightest bit a little at the recollection. That had been a satisfying battle. As much as anything was satisfying anymore, that is. “A speedster is far too useful to pass up the opportunity to obtain. I killed him myself.”

“…wait, what?” the woman in white says, as if dumb. "You did - what?"

“Scarlet,” Len says to his speedster, who remained in his characteristic colors even in his death. He jerks his head at the ship. “It’s a Gideon system. You’re good with those. I want control.”

Barry bows his head and is gone.

The ghosts continue to fill the ship.

“What – this is impossible –” the Brit splutters. “Ghosts don’t even _exist_ , not properly –”

“Are you telling me you were unaware of Mr. Snart’s ability this entire time?” the old man says, sounding shocked. “We all assumed that that was one of the reasons you called upon him to join your crew –”

“If I’d _known_ about it, I would have _used_ it,” the Brit shoots back. The whites around his eyes are showing. “Of course I didn’t know!”

Len has no idea what they’re talking about. Of course, he doesn’t much care, either. He never cares. 

“Gideon,” he says, testing the system. 

“Yes, sir,” she says mechanically. Barry’s got his fingers in her override, good. 

“Get us out of the time stream.”

“No, you musn’t,” the Brit cuts in to say. “You don’t understand, our lives are in danger –”

“In that case, you will die,” Len says disinterestedly. “And join my legions. That sounds good to me.”

“Your _legions_?”

“Boss, you don’t got legions,” the black kid says. His eyes are big and round. 

“Of course I do,” Len says. His voice is cold, his manner is cold; the power that flows through his veins is cold, too. Perhaps the moniker the tall man had suggested and the kid had said was Len’s so-called “schtick” – Captain Cold, was it? – was apt. Though, really, Len is more of a general than a mere captain. Perhaps Commander Cold, or something of the sort; the idea is moderately amusing, which is more than most things are nowadays. “What are the dead if not legions at my command?”

“You’re a _necromancer_ ,” the Brit says accusingly. 

“Yes,” Len says. “Of course I am. Haven’t you been paying attention?"


	40. 39

"But you're _not_ ," the kid – his name was Jax, apparently – says for the fifth time, sounding increasingly frantic. "You're _not_ a necromancer, boss. That was always important. _Not_ a necromancer. Don’t you remember?"

"You seem to have trouble accepting reality," Len observes dispassionately. He's slouched back against one of the consoles, watching his ghosts explore the ship for details. They found an instruction manual a few minutes ago; Barry is speed-reading it now. Soon, Len won't have any need to keep the crew alive. 

He wonders if they realize that. 

His poltergeists are keeping them bound to their seats, arms tightly pressed to their sides, but Len has no particular problem letting them whisper conspiracies and plans on how to escape their situation to each other in the meantime. It won't help them, of course; nothing will help them, in the end. The ship will soon be Len’s, and he will be able to return home to the empire of dust and ruin he’s slowly building. 

"My reality is fine; _yours_ , on the other hand, I ain't too sure about," Jax shoots back. He hasn't been whispering; he persists in trying to talk to Len, instead. He's combative without being disrespectful. 

And he already calls Len boss.

"I will have to keep you when you're gone," Len muses. 

The grey-haired academic – Grey, Jax calls him, though the others call him Stein - bristles and tries to move forward protectively before Len’s ghosts pull him back. "Gone? What does that mean? Surely you don't intend to murder us wholesale, Mr. Snart."

"No," Len says, and sees all of them but the revenant relax until he adds, "Not till I confirm that I can run the ship without your living assistance, anyway."

"So - that means - you _are_ intending on killing us," the tall man – Ray? – says, sounding a little blank. Maybe a little betrayed. 

"Oh, yes," Len says. "More grist to my mill, most of you. Your lives will serve to empower my other ghosts, and you yourselves will join my legions as servitors. Except you, Jax. You can be a lieutenant."

"Oh goody," Jax says. "Just what I've always wanted to be - a _dead_ lieutenant."

"I can't guarantee control of you otherwise," Len points out, almost amused. Almost. Close enough for him, nowadays; it’s as close as he comes to what he vaguely recalls as that emotion.

"You could just _trust_ me," Jax says. He sounds hurt, the little puppy. “Ever think of that?"

"No,” Len says honestly. “The living are by nature liars."

"Mick isn't," the bird-woman, Kendra, says. She'd nearly escaped when she'd pulled out those wings; it had rather shocked the ghosts. But she was still no match for a speedster ghost, with all the power of Len's favorite poltergeist enforcers behind him. "Mick was always honest, and you trusted him. Don’t you remember?"

"I keep telling you, I don't know who this 'Mick' guy is," Len says. 

"He's your partner," the revenant says. "And we made a terrible mistake, and changed the timeline, and took him from you."

Something is wrong.

Something is _missing_.

Len turns to her with a frown, as do some of her colleagues.

"What are you talking about?" Ray asks.

"I’ve figured out what happened," the revenant says grimly. "Jax, was Mick alive when we met him?"

"Nah," Jax replies. "He was a ghost.”

“He _was_?” Kendra asks. 

“Yeah. That’s why he was always coming along on dangerous missions and stuff, since he knew he couldn’t die twice."

"He was originally from the 1930s, I believe he said once," Grey adds, nodding in agreement. 

The revenant nods. "Yeah, well, the rest of us didn't know that, and that's how we made the mistake," she says, making a face. "Remember the last mission, guys? Chasing after the Pilgrim? We saved Mick Rory from dying in a fire with his family. A fire he probably _didn't_ survive the first time around."

“Aw, shit,” Jax says, understanding. “No death, no ghost. No ghost, no Len meeting that ghost at juvie. No meeting, no partnership…”

"So, wait, you’re saying that having the younger Mick in our cargo bay..." Ray says, eyes going wide.

"...is why Snart is acting like this," the captain concludes, scowling. “It’s a massive time aberration, and _we’re_ the ones that caused it.” 

“Gideon told us she hadn’t been able to track the temporal anomaly involved in the Pilgrim’s actions,” Kendra says with a groan, knocking her head back against her chair. “Remember? That’s because there _wasn’t_ any. If the Pilgrim had killed him, nothing would’ve changed.”

“But surely you should have noticed that you were in the wrong era!” Grey exclaims. “Perhaps you did not have the insight that Jefferson and I did as to Mr. Rory’s state of being, so to speak – and we were in the medical bay as a result of the Pilgrim’s earlier actions, of course – but surely being in the _1930s_ …”

“The clothing looked about the same,” the revenant says defensively. “It was a farm, okay? I don’t know anything about farms or farmers, we just landed in a field and saw a house on fire and the Pilgrim walking up there aiming a gun at some teenager who was asleep on the couch and we saved his life, okay? We're heroes, it's what we do. It was totally reasonable.”

“Shouldn’t Gideon have said something, though?”

“We didn’t wait for Gideon,” Ray says ruefully. “We just followed the Pilgrim’s ship, remember? We didn’t even have time enough to check what year we were going to!”

“Clearly, we should have,” the captain says. “Thought obviously it would have _helped_ if we knew about Mr. Rory’s…ah…living status _before_ this had all happened –”

“How did you _not_ know about it?” Jax shoots back. “You’re the Time Master! Mr. From the Future guy! And hey, while we're at it, how is it that you don’t believe in ghosts, but you know about necromancers?”

“Necromancers and mediums are a specific type of magic user known to the Time Masters, albeit fairly rare ones, and ones I have never encountered before,” the captain says stiffly. “They utilize magical projections and summonings which they refer to as ‘ghosts’ –”

“And it never occurred to you those might, y’know, be _real ghosts_?”

“Most necromancers don’t exactly use them as _sentient beings_ , Mr. Jackson –”

“We’re getting away from the point here,” the revenant interjects. “Namely the fact that we are being held down by ghosts commanded by a _necromancer version of Leonard_ because we saved Mick’s life –”

Len watches them bicker, his eyes flickering between them as he follows along in the conversation. He probably ought to be concerned or something. They are talking about him, after all, and about someone who they believe meant something to him.

Someone who they apparently stole from him.

Someone who – if what they’re saying is true – is in the cargo bay right now. 

Len’s – 

Len’s not sure what to do about that.

It seems to require feeling something. He’s not too good at that these days.

Barry appears in front of Len, much to Len’s relief. "We need a palm-print to open the next room," he says without fanfare. He's learned that Len prefers directness. 

"From?"

"Any of the crew,” Barry says, then adds, preempting Len’s next question, “Living; there are automatic protections against the dead. Or at least, there are against corpses, anyway; I guess the palm-print might theoretically still work if you empowered someone all the way back to full solidity."

Like Len would ever do that. Why waste the effort?

"There are protections against unwillingness, too," the captain says. Rip Hunter, he'd introduced himself as; he’s been chief of the whisperers and the least cooperative. It was his fault they were floating dead in the timeline; once he realized the scope of Len’s power, he tried to activate a shutdown of the whole ship through pre-planted keywords, forcing Barry to rip the interior computer controls out with his hands to make it stop. That, in turn, had messed up the process of getting control over the Gideon system. They'd been obligated to wait in the time stream until the time wraiths could bring over some of the more technically inclined of Len's victims. 

Len does prefer to use his own victims, really, whenever possible. He hadn't learned much from his father, whose spirit Len had very much enjoyed pulling out of the man's corpse and having his other ghosts rip apart, slowly, over the course of a week, but he had learned this much: the personal touch is always better.

They fear you more, that way. 

Cisco Ramon – the one referenced by Jax earlier – turned out to be another victim of Len's elimination of STAR Labs, one that Len hadn't paid much mind too before. Clearly a mistake: it turned out he was a very skilled mechanic and, according to Barry, would be of great value in repairing even a ship from the future. 

And so Len called, and so Len waited. He’s here now, Ramon; he's elbow deep in the ship's guts, learning her. Deactivating any other trigger words.

Very useful. Len will have to promote him to the inner circle if he continues to be this useful.

Rip Hunter is still speaking. 

" – as you see, you have no choice but to negotiate with us if you wish to regain control of the ship. Gideon's sensors, even – even brutalized, as you have done, will not permit you to use a hand of a person who doesn't want it used." 

"So, according to you, _wanting_ not to use it is important," Len says. "An unconscious person might do the trick."

Hunter's eyes flicker. He probably hadn't thought of that. "Feel free to try it," he says arrogantly. A bluff, if Len had to wager.

Luckily, he doesn't. 

"Sara Lance," he says, based on the name that the others have been calling her. Names have power. "You will unlock it for me."

The revenant laughs a little, sounding incredulous. "Me? You think you can trick or force me into opening it for you? I hate to break it to you, but you've got the wrong girl."

"I don't think I do," Len says. "Release her."

The ghosts let her go.

She immediately leaps to her feet, adopting a fighting position, but before she can even finish the gesture, Len bends his will upon her and says, his voice echoing full with his power, " _Stop_."

She stops.

And then she looks surprised at herself, and tries to move, struggling with ever more horror at her body's failure to obey her.

"You may speak," Len says. He never liked gags. His dad –

He’s not thinking about that. 

"How are you doing this?!" she spits immediately. 

"Do you really not know?" Len asks. "Surely you must have felt drawn to me from the beginning."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're a revenant. You were once dead, your spirit free, and then you were called back and bound within your body by a medium," Len tells her. His voice is as cold and smooth as ice, just as it always is; he can see that the unemotional recitation disturbs her and mildly regrets that it does, but he can't change it. There's no fire that heats his blood.

Not anymore.

"So what?" she says, but there is fear in her voice. She understands, even though she doesn’t want to.

"You are a ghost in a living body," Len says. "There are spaces between you and your body, spaces that come from death. Spaces that you can only fill by violence or shedding of blood, or sex, or food, or some other vice. Which is yours?"

She's gone still. 

"Answer." He doesn’t put power behind it, but she answers anyway. 

"The bloodlust," she whispers.

"Quite typical," Len says. "You need not be distressed. The vampire myth had to come from somewhere."

“Yeah, you've mentioned that before," she says with a sneer, trying to cover her distress with bravado and not entirely succeeding. "People like me being vampires and werewolves –”

“People like you inspired the vampire and werewolf myths," Len corrects her. "If it’s any consolation, the medium who brought you back did a better than average job; you’ve got a lot less spaces left in you than others I've seen. Tell me his name."

"What, so you can go _kill him_ and force him to join your undead armies?"

"Firstly, my armies are dead, not undead. And secondly, no, probably not. His powers may require him to be alive," Len says regretfully. He learned that through his experiences with other mediums. "Blood is such a popular device for that sort of person." 

He wrinkles his nose, disapproving. 

"Whereas you just prefer outright murder."

"I don't prefer anything," Len says truthfully. "But death and control of ghosts is the most efficient approach. People don't object to orders that way."

“Sure, I bet that's what you tell yourself,” she sneers. She’s lashing out to cover her fear. It’s fine. Less streamlined than he might like, less efficient, but he doesn’t mind the delay too much. He’s in no rush: he’s got nothing to look forward to, after all. “The necromancer who walks, trailed by the ghosts of his victims – cold and heartless – that’s just what’s _efficient_.”

“It is,” Len says, and stands. “Come along; I apparently require your palm-print.”

Len wants to get away from the crew before they talk any more about this – Mick. The suggestion that he had a partner, that there was someone close to him, someone he misses; it disturbs him. Deeply. 

He doesn’t like that thought.

Why would he ever make himself so vulnerable to another person? Does that mean that – what happened all those years ago - with Lisa –

No.

He’s not thinking about that. 

He _never_ thinks about that.

“You realize this means we have to put the young Mr. Rory back if we are to repair the timeline,” he hears the old one who is called Grey say to the others as he walks out of the room.

“We can’t!” Ray exclaims. “He’s a teenager! If we put him back, he’ll die!”

“We clearly have no choice,” Rip says.

“You’re hardly a good judge, you always default to child murder,” the bird-woman snaps. “Remember Kasnia?”

“Miss Saunders, my best intentions to _save the world_ aside, I likely wouldn’t have been able to actually _carry it out_ –”

Len is very grateful when the door slides shut behind him and cuts them off.

“Are they always so – well, like _that_?” he asks the revenant. No, Sara. He should be gracious and refer to her by name, if she is to work with him.

He always tries to know them by name. 

Especially his victims.

Sara looks amused despite herself. “Yes, they are,” she says. “You were part of our crew, once, you know.”

“That seems unlikely.”

Though theoretically, if true, his own palm-print would work on the door. He wonders if she realizes that she’s rendered herself useless with her little revelation – assuming that he believes her.

Which he doesn’t. 

He _can’t_ believe her, because if that part’s correct, then perhaps the other part –

No.

“Do you know how time aberrations work?” she persists. “The timeline is unsettled, for now. If we put it right, you’ll be back the way you were. With a partner you trust. A partner you _love_. That must be appealing to you, right? Having someone you love and trust?”

Len feels his lips turn up in what is really not a smile. “You’re taking the wrong approach.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing _appeals_ to me anymore. Certainly not emotions.”

She frowns. She doesn’t understand.

“I’m a necromancer,” Len tells her gently. “I command the unwilling dead. And more than that, I committed the greatest of all crimes: I took one of the dead from the black book of God and returned her to life. And though I do not regret doing it, I suffer for it.”

“I don’t understand,” Sara says. “What – what do you mean?”

Len shakes his head. There’s no point in explaining it.

In explaining any of it.

He doubts anyone could understand. 

The wrenching pain that shattered his heart when his father, enraged beyond reason, brought the bottle down on Lisa’s head, again and again and again, until there was nothing but a smear of blood and blonde hair that never got the chance to fade to brown; pain which never fades. 

His father’s bellowing rage going quiet in Len’s ears; sound which has never returned.

The feeling of joy, lost; the feeling of _anything_ muted. 

He only knows what he feels because he remembers the sensation from before. And even those sensations are limited: things amuse him, or annoy him, and sometimes even disturb him, but he hasn’t felt anything stronger since the day he took the easy route out of the pain that is his sole companion now. 

He couldn’t even feel joy at the sight of Lisa, returned to him, rising up from the dead – not merely a ghost, no, but _alive_. Alive, yes, but repulsed by him, by his actions, by how he robbed her of her freedom to pass on, as all dead longed to do. 

He has hope that she might forgive him for what he’s done one day, but he will never know. That which he takes from God is not his to keep. 

He remembers the way everything he loved began to die at the moment that she began to live. 

His friends, his livelihood, his _city_. 

He remembers not being able to care enough to act, or to stop himself from lashing out in ruinous destruction, but still enough – just enough – to be able to suffer from it. 

_The worst thing you can do is also the easiest_ , his mother had told him. _Let me tell you how to make the dead dance on this earth again. But, my son: this you must never do!_

But he did.

And he pays and he pays and he pays, endless payment, payment in a heart made of ice and stone, payment in cruelty he cannot stop himself from meting out, payment in days that go on and on, filled with nothingness, without end – without even hope of end. 

For him, after all, even death is no longer an avenue of escape. 

Len cannot cut off his own life anymore, artificially prolonged by his curse so that he might truly learn the meaning of suffering; he must wait for someone else to do it. And so now he builds himself a monument of ruin, his armies of the dead a creeping sickness on the cities he once so loved, posing them as a challenge to the world: if you dare, come here and stop me.

Please.

Please, stop me. 

“Here’s the door,” Cisco says, pointing. 

Len nods at Sara, who scowls.

“Do it yourself, or I’ll order you to,” Len says mildly.

She puts her palm on the scanner.

Look at that, coercion still works just fine.

“You should tell Rip that his fantastic plans need a bit of trouble-shooting,” Len says dryly. 

“It’s creepy how much you still sound like you,” Sara says. “Except you managed not to make a ‘get it? shooting? because he carries a six-shooter?’ joke at the end of it.”

“That’s funny,” Len observes. “I like that.”

“Great,” Sara mutters. “Maybe I’ll also get to be a lieutenant in your Army of the Dead. Yippee.”

“Not with an attitude like that you won’t,” Len lies. He kind of likes the attitude. 

“Great, that’s one of the last few pieces we needed,” Cisco says. He’s very perky. Len slides him a bit more power as a reward, which makes him glow. Yes, very perky. Maybe he should assign him to Lisa’s defense squad; she might like him. That’s far more important than his mechanical skills could ever be. “We’ll be able to get the ship up and running momentarily.”

“Good,” Len says. “I don’t like the time stream.”

One of the time wraiths whines, a choking half-scream half-hiss that sounds like a machine. Of course _it_ likes the time stream. 

“It separates me from the dead,” Len tells it, feeling for some reason reminded of a puppy. He’s not sure why; he’s never had that thought before. “I need to be back on Earth, where my armies are.”

“Activating now,” Barry says.

The ship shudders back to life.

And an alarm promptly goes off.

Len sighs and lifts a hand to tell them to turn the ship back off. One of Rip Hunter’s tricks, no doubt – he’ll give it to the man, he’s certainly persistent – 

“No, wait!” Sara exclaims, grabbing at Len’s arm. “That’s the time aberration alarm.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , someone might be in danger!”

“And I care because…?”

“It might be you,” she says. "Maybe it's your younger self, about to get killed."

Len frowns. He doesn’t really much care if anything happens to him, but the ghosts around him are looking worried. 

He wishes he knew why. 

“Fine,” he says shortly. There’s no harm in giving in on this matter, after all; she did provide the palm-print he requested. “Gideon, report on the time aberration.”

“The Pilgrim is targeting Leonard Snart at age 17,” Gideon’s mechanical voice, stripped of all emotion, says. “Central City. 1629 Handley Avenue.”

Len can feel his brow furrowing. Handley Avenue. That’s where he grew up. 

His father’s old house.

Where _Lisa_ lived.

“We go there now,” he says, and his voice is cold, cold, _cold_ , so cold that even the ghosts flinch away, that Sara instinctively takes a step back, and Len turns on his heel and goes back to the bridge.

Sara and the ghosts follow behind him. 

“Is he always like that?” he hears her ask.

“It’s always cold when he looks at you,” Barry tells her in return. “Always.”

“Always?”

“He’s a necromancer,” Cisco says. “He’ll die when someone kills him, and then his spirit will be ripped apart by his own ghosts, and only then will we be free. That’s kinda the way it works.”

“Holy crap,” Sara says. “That’s – _awful_.”

Len waits for the door to the bridge to slide open, then strides in. 

“Tell me about this Pilgrim,” he says. 

“She is the Time Masters’ most deadly assassin,” Rip replies promptly. Perhaps he hopes that Len will take pity on his mission. “Her specialization is what the Time Masters call the Omega Protocols – the destruction of an individual’s younger self in order to ensure that they do not live long enough to cause trouble. She’s smart, ruthless, powerful –”

“Enough adjectives. What are her weapons?”

“She’s got a temporal micro-manipulator,” Ray says. “It slows down time in her immediate area. She can use it to stop my lasers, or Firestorm’s flames, or even your cold gun.” He pauses. “Do you still have a cold gun?”

Len vaguely recalls Barry mentioning some temperature-themed weapons that had been stolen from STAR Labs before Len had taken it over. That would have worked quite well with a ‘cold’ persona, if he’d been interested in doing something like that.

“I don’t need a gun,” Len reminds Ray. 

Might be cool, though.

Heh.

_Cool._

Because it’s a _cold_ gun. 

Sometimes Len wishes he had someone to tell these stupid puns to. 

Every time he tries to tell it to one of his ghosts, that part of him in his chest – the old him, the one from before, the one who can do nothing but suffer – screams in agony that he can almost hear; Len’s not sure whether it’s because it’s mean to impose puns on unwilling victims or if he’s remembering what it was like to have real friends, but he avoids it regardless. 

He has to cut himself off from those feelings, or else he’d never get anything done. 

“She’s trained with multiple forms of weaponry and close combat,” Sara volunteers. Helpful revenant; yes, Len will definitely have to keep her, too. “We’ve seen her use handguns, laser guns – she fought me with improvised weaponry, like chair legs and police batons.”

“How familiar is she with ghosts?” Len asks. 

“Not at all,” Rip says. “Like most Time Masters, she likely doesn’t believe they exist.”

“Good,” Len says. He looks them over. “I’d like a few of you to come with me to make sure I identify the right person. Which of you would be able to identify her without stabbing me in the back?”

“If you’re gonna kill us to be sure about that, none of us,” Jax says. 

Len rolls his eyes. “I’ve already made clear that I’m not killing you until I know I can run this ship without you. You’ll be under guard by ghosts, but you’ll be alive.”

“We all can identify her,” Ray says.

“Fine. You, Jax, and Sara will do,” Len says, nodding at the ghosts holding them down to release them. “Come along by your own free will. If you don’t want to, you’ll be dragged. It doesn’t matter to me which you select.”

They come with him, but the expressions on their faces are mulish. 

Not good with authority. Len’s okay with that.

“Why us?” Ray asks. 

“Because Rip and Kendra are more likely to stab me in the back on principle,” Len replies. 

“You know I’m usually sent out _with_ Grey when there’s a fight brewing, right?” Jax says. “We bond together to become Firestorm. It’s a whole thing. By myself I’m just a high school quarterback with a torn ACL.”

“And I don’t even have my suit,” Ray adds.

“Given that all I need from you is your eyes and your brain,” Len says, “I’m sure you’ll both do fine.”

They look surprised. “You don’t want us to fight?” Sara asks.

“Why would I?” Len says, waiting for the Waverider to land and the door to open, which it does with a hiss of pressure.

Handley Avenue awaits.

Len remembers this street. He’s pretty sure that in his time, it’s been completely demolished, except for the corner store with the ice cream that his grandfather used to deliver. After Len’s grandfather died, the owner would look the other way when Len was stealing food for Lisa. 

Len had given the owner and his family a free escort out of Central City, with a warning that Len was only inclined to give get out of jail cards once. 

He steps out into the warm summer air.

He breathes in the scents of his childhood: the smell of concrete and asphalt, grass and dirt smudged on lawns that barely deserved the name, the sticky smell of drying paint.

And as he exhales, his power goes out, too, and the ghosts come to his call.

Friendly, unfriendly, it doesn’t matter; he is powerful enough not to care. 

He is empty enough not to care.

They come and they come and they come, until Len’s armies surround him, strong but unseen. 

“Report,” he says.

“A woman is approaching the house from the back,” one ghost says. “And four men are leaving through the front – Family men, Don Tomio and his sons, and a local man, an enforcer.”

Len nods, recalling the instance. Don Tomio’s son had taken a swipe at him, and Len had recoiled, and he’d gotten a bottle bashed over his head in the meantime. He’d lain there for hours, bleeding on the flood, while his father took the Family representatives elsewhere – hours and hours, until Lisa came home and found him on the ground. She called the ambulance and saved his life. 

The hospital got the glass out, but it had been too long to heal properly: the scars remained, and the flesh on his head pulled a little every time he smiled.

Luckily he doesn’t smile too much anymore.

He glances at the trio of the living.

“The woman,” Ray says. “That’s probably her.”

They avoid the men in the front and go to the back. The Pilgrim is dressed in skintight vinyl, with leather straps, looking like –

“Trinity from the Matrix?” Len asks. “Really?”

“So creepy how just like him you are,” Sara mutters. “ _So creepy_.”

Len ignores her and walks forward, leaving the others behind.

She smirks when she sees him. 

“Are you here to stop me from killing your younger self?” she asks. “By yourself? Really?”

Len looks at her. She looks cruel. 

“Why do you want to kill me?” he asks.

“My orders –” she starts.

“You don’t need to follow them,” Len says. “‘I was just following orders’ is no excuse.”

Except for his servants, of course. 

She scoffs and lifts a futuristic-looking gun, pointing it at him. “I’ll enjoy this,” she says conversationally. “I’ll kill you now, and then I’ll kill your younger self, too.”

“Even though I would be no further threat after the first murder?” Len inquires.

“Just for fun,” she confirms.

“Good to know,” Len says. “I always enjoy killing the cruel most.”

At least, he thinks he does.

She’s about to laugh at him, he thinks, when his ghosts descend upon her. 

The battle is short and anti-climactic, at least to him, who knew the outcome from the first moment battle was joined. 

The Pilgrim takes a little longer to catch on.

She fires wildly at them, which they solidify to catch in their bodies to avoid collateral damage from her bullets hitting anyone else; they are dead, after all, and it doesn’t hurt them as much as it would the living. She wield some sort of device to slow them down, but more approach from other directions.

She spins, slowly, on one foot, freezing them all –

And the ghostly hands of a poltergeist reach up from the earth to rip her apart at the knees. 

A ghostly hand clamps over her mouth as she tries to scream, ghostly hands catch her as she falls, the ghosts move again as the temporal micro-manipulation device fails, yanked off of her, still clutched in her glove - with the hand inside of it still intact. 

And then the ghosts are too many for Len to see what happens next.

No matter. He knows. 

“Holy _crap_ ,” Sara says.

“Suddenly I get why he never uses ghosts for shit like that,” Jax says, sounding ill. “Or didn’t, anyway.”

There’s a noise from the house.

1629 Handley Avenue. His father’s house.

Len frowns and turns. 

“Get out of here,” a ghost bellows, standing outside the back yard. One of Len’s, yes, by right all the dead are his, and yet also not one of his. This ghost, he’s strong. Amazingly strong, incredibly strong – he’s so strong, he’s practically shining to Len’s eyes. He’s rich with the warmth of life. 

Len hasn’t been warm in so long. 

“Get away, all of you!” the ghost continues, looking panicked. He keeps glancing behind him. “Lisa, dial the number already! We need to get the ambulance before any of these ghosts come any closer!”

This ghost knows Lisa.

This ghost –

“Is that Mick?” Ray asks. 

“It’s gotta be,” Jax says. “The timeline’s twisted enough to change Len’s memories, but it hasn’t actually _settled_ yet, so Mick hasn’t totally disappeared.”

“Yeah, he looks just like the one we pulled out of the burning house back in the ‘30s,” Sara says. 

This ghost is _at his house_. He shines with _Len’s_ life, life from long ago – life from before Len became what he is now, when his power was still warm, not cold. 

This ghost talks to Lisa. He knows Lisa, and Lisa knows him.

Len feels it again, that pang, deep in his chest. That feeling of emptiness. That sense of wrongness.

Something is _missing_. 

Could it be that the crew was telling the truth about their terrible mistake, about removing someone from the timeline and robbing Len of his presence? 

Could this man, this ghost, _really_ be Len’s partner? 

No.

Surely – 

It's impossible.

It _has to be_ impossible. 

If Len had a partner, someone he loved and trusted, he might have something to live for: something that would make him think twice about doing something terrible, something foolish, something permanent, and Len can’t risk that. 

Len can’t risk not being there for Lisa when she needs him. Len can’t risk not having done what he needed to do. Len can’t have let this man, this _ghost_ , substitute for what really matters. For Lisa, for Lisa's life. And more than that -

Len can’t risk starting to feel again. 

He _can’t_.

Because if he did, he’d have to actually feel everything he’s done. Everything he’s lost. All that suffering, returned seven-fold, climbing into his brain, _paralyzing_ him. 

No!

But something is still _missing_. 

Sara said, earlier, and Jax repeated it now, that the timeline hadn’t set yet. That there was still an opportunity to return the teenage boy back to his original death, to make sure that his ghost would be there, eventually, ready for Len to meet. Ready to change Len’s life. 

Ready to make Len human again. To make him feel everything he's been insulated from feeling. 

Len grits his teeth.

He can’t permit that to happen. 

If the timeline will not do its duty and eliminate this ghost from Len’s timeline, then Len will do it himself. 

He gathers his power, thick in his chest, and he reaches out –


	41. 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have a work thing keeping me busy on Wednesday and may therefore post that update very late or even a day late: surprise early update for all!

“It’s fine,” the kid says.

He’s pretty tall, for someone who’s only fourteen or fifteen, and his shoulders are broad; his build promises that his future, should it ever come to pass, will be as a tall, bulky man, like the photographs the Legends have shown Len. 

The so-called Legends, which are currently trying to make sure that boy’s future never come to pass.

Len hates every minute of this.

It’s been a long time since he’s been interested enough in anything to hate it. 

“You’re sure? You understand we’re talking about you dying here, right?” Ray asks, looking worried. He and Kendra and Jax insisted that the boy get asked before he is returned to his timeline. 

Sara asked, very quietly, what they would do if the answer was ‘no’.

Ray and Kendra and Jax didn't respond. 

Jax averted his eyes.

Rip sat there, his fists clenched until his knuckles were white. He didn’t like what they were doing any more than the others, even as he advocated the necessity. Of course, in his plan, they would never have asked; they would simply have done it and he would have borne the weight on his conscience to be suffered in silence. 

That plan is looking better by the second, but it’s too late now.

“I get it, okay?” the kid says. “If I don’t go home, the world’s basically over.”

“Just large swaths of North America, really,” Cisco says.

“Shut up,” Sara says.

“I want to go back,” the kid says, wrapping his arms around himself. “I want to be with my family. I don’t deserve to have outlived ‘em, anyway.”

Len grits his teeth and looks away. 

He should’ve just banished the teenage ghost when he’d had the chance. Sent him away, made him disappear; pulled him into Len’s army and hid him in the back until the timeline solidified and he was gone.

He was _going_ to – his hand was extended, his dreadful power sweeping before him –

But then he’d heard it.

He’d heard his own voice, young and alive in a way he hadn’t been in forever, and he’d been screaming. And not just screaming, no; screaming for _him_. For this ghost. For _Mick_. 

And all of Len’s power faded away to nothing.

He banished all his ghosts and turned away before the ghost on the lawn could see his face; he let the ghost think that he’d succeeded in scaring away the unquiet dead. 

He’d watched from afar as the ghost hovered by his younger self’s side as he was loaded onto the ambulance, watching to make sure that he did not fall. How the ghost took his younger self by the hand, squeezing it gently in offered comfort. How the ghost stayed on guard against the world for him. 

How this _Mick_ stood by his side the entire time. 

Len doesn't know what that means, or whether it means what the Legends swear it does, but he knows this much: he can’t rob himself of that opportunity. 

He can’t.

Deep in his gut, he knows that something is _missing_. He knows now, too, that this Mick is that something. 

He doesn’t really feel anything anymore, not anything but suffering, but underneath all that suffering is the slightest scrap of hope – hope that it will all end one day – and he cannot rob his former self, his _living_ self, of that hope. 

He has to give the Legends a chance to make things right.

When he asks, not really wanting to know, Jax insists that Lisa still lives in the timeline that they’re supposedly from. Len’s not sure he believes him. 

He’s not sure what it says about him, that he made the decision to let them try to fix things before he knew that – or that he’s letting them go forward with it, despite not necessarily believing them. He doesn't like that thought: Lisa is everything to him, or so he thought. And yet...

“I want to go back,” the boy is insisting, stubbornly. 

“But –” Kendra starts, Ray echoing her. 

“He’s made his choice, Ray, Kendra,” Jax says sharply. “It’s time to accept it.”

“We gave you a chance to talk to him about it, not to convince him out of it,” Stein says. “He has agreed. Let us go.”

“It will be fine,” Rip says, standing up. He pulls open a wall and removes a packet, tearing it open to shake loose a pill. He hands it to Mick. “Take this.”

“What’s it for?” Mick asks. He sounds young and scared. 

“It’ll help readjust you to the timeline,” Rip says. He means that it will erase Mick’s memories of the current events. 

But Mick nods and takes the pill. He swallows it. 

Len resists the urge to go check his mouth to be sure. 

“C’mon, man,” Jax says, taking him gently by the arm. “Follow me. We’ll get you back where you belong.”

Len waits until they’ve gone ahead of the others, out of ear shot, and steps forward.

The remaining Legends look at him.

“If you so much as think about having any further moral dilemmas on this issue,” Len says, very pleasantly, “I will personally rip your ghost out of your body while you’re still alive.”

“…can you do that?” Ray asks.

“I’ve never tried,” Len says. “I’m willing to give it a shot, though.”

“We won’t,” Sara says. “We know he needs to go back into the timeline. Thanks for giving us the opportunity to try.”

“Whatever,” Len says, and waves her and Rip off his ship. He’s assigned them ghosts to keep an eye on their actions and report back if they try anything, of course; he’s not an idiot.

They’re in 1936. Not far outside of Keystone.

Rip suggested bringing the Waverider down some distance away, to avoid crossing paths with their former selves. The goal would be to put the teenager – to put Mick – back with his family moments after the Legends removed him. 

He was asleep when the Legends caught him and pulled him out of there, apparently, so they’ll put him back just the way he was.

“He’s awake this time,” Len notes to the ones who remained: Ray and Kendra, who wanted nothing to do with this mission, and Stein, to keep an eye on them, and probably on him, too. 

“The pill Rip gave him will put him to sleep for a short period, I think,” Ray says. “Long enough for them to get out of there.”

“Long enough to let him die in a fire,” Kendra says bitterly. “He’s a _kid_.”

“This is what happened originally,” Stein says. “I dislike the necessity of it as much as you, but I cannot see any other option.”

“It doesn’t feel very heroic,” Ray says, wrapping a hand around Kendra’s waist. "That's all."

The shade at her feet reaches up and strokes her calf. 

“You three in some sort of threesome?” Len asks, more to avoid thinking about what’s going to happen than any other reason.

Stein looks offended. “We most certainly are not.”

“Not _you_ , Grey,” Len says, rolling his eyes. “The three of _them_.”

Ray and Kendra look at each other. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“You, Ray, and the shade,” Len says.

“What shade?”

“He hangs around your feet, waiting around for something, I think,” Len says. “Not sure what. Getting stronger, though.”

“A shade…?” Kendra blanches. “Wait. You see ghosts. Is it - _Carter_? Carter’s ghost?”

“I mean, you two do reincarnate,” Ray says, looking equally shaken. “And you’re always near enough to find each other, somehow. It would make sense, I guess…”

“But – I don’t…” Kendra looks sick.

“If you don’t…if you want…” Ray starts, drawing away from her and starting to wring his hands. “I mean, he was first – your _soulmate_ -”

“But I love _you_ ,” she replies, distressed. 

The shade roils unhappily, wrapping ghostly tendrils – not yet hands – around both of their ankles.

“Maybe you should ask him what _he_ thinks,” Barry suggests quietly. He’s standing by Len’s shoulder, his usual resting place. “Before you break up over it.”

“But how do we do that?” Kendra asks.

Barry shoots Len a look. He has a very earnest gaze for one of the dead. 

Len rolls his eyes and gathers power. The Pilgrim’s death will fuel this little enhancement quite nicely, and at any rate he has plenty left over from all the other deaths he’s caused – far more power, far more life, than he ever had access to in his life before, far more than any single person could hold within themselves, but now he has access to all of that power. 

And all he needed to do to get it was to destroy himself. 

He pours the power into the shade. 

It hisses and curls up at first, but Len has no sympathy or patience for the shade’s desire to reach its resurrection slowly and in its own time. 

Len has very little sympathy or patience at all. 

The shade grows and grows, finally unfurling into the shadow of a man. Tall and tan. 

He glimmers into a full apparition. Len jabs him with a little more energy, and he appears on the visual spectrum.

“Carter!” Kendra exclaims.

The shade doesn’t speak – it’s _really_ resisting Len’s powers, which is a foolish thing to do; does it think that Len gives this power to just anyone? – it just reaches out and grabs her hand.

Ray takes a step backwards.

The shade grabs his hand, too, and puts both of their hands together.

“What?” Ray asks.

“I – do you approve?” Kendra asks. "Is that what you're saying? You approve of me and Ray?"

The shade nods.

There are tears in Kendra's eyes. Ray doesn't look much better - overwhelmed and grateful and shocked.

“Please go and have feelings somewhere else,” Len says. He doesn’t make it an order. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they don’t listen to him.

Len decides that it’s his cue to exit.

He backs off into the next room. He hates it when people have feelings all over in public. It’s just uncalled for, really. Bad enough that they have them at all – must they flaunt them in front of those that don't? – but then to actually _demonstrate_ them – in front of _other people_ , who did nothing to deserve it –

He puts his head against the cold metal wall of the hallway and sighs. 

A hand falls on his shoulder, broad and warm. 

“Lenny?” a quiet voice says over his shoulder.

Len opens his eyes, smiling a little at the familiar worried tone of his partner. “Mick.” 

And then the horror hits. 

Mick helps him get to the bathroom so Len can vomit without being seen. He sits next to him, petting his back, letting Len get it all out of him. All the bile, all the horror. 

Len’s body shakes as he heaves, as if he could try to expel all the wrongness, all the suffering, _all_ of it, through sheer force of will alone.

“Leave him alone,” Mick snarls at Sara, who pokes her head in to confirm that Len and Mick are back as they should be.

“Glad to see you back,” she says, and pulls her head back out. 

“I was a necromancer,” Len whispers. “Mick. _Mick_. I was a _necromancer_.”

“Shit,” Mick says with real feeling.

“I think – I think I was _the_ necromancer, too. From 2046. Not the same way as this one: this one never had you. This one - this _me_ \- he lost Lisa, and he brought her back, and it was terrible, because I never had you to stand with me, never had you to hold me back. And then - the one in 2046 - He's even worse, because He was me for even longer, ages and ages, so very close to where I am now. He was me. And then He lost you, _I_ lost you, somehow, and everything went wrong and He turned into _that_. He - no. No, _I_ turned into that.” Len shudders. “God, Mick. I was – I did – I did such terrible things, Mick – awful things – to my city – to my friends – to _everyone_ –”

“You didn’t do any of that in this timeline,” Mick reminds him. He doesn’t say that Len didn’t do them at all, which is good; Len might’ve had a bad reaction to that. “You haven’t done them yet. We'll do our best to make sure you never will.”

Len nods. It helps, a little. 

Not much. 

Mick pulls him in tight, holding him in his arms for a moment.

That helps a bit more.

“What about you?” Len asks morbidly.

Mick shudders, and pulls away.

Len twists to look at him. 

“Didn’t die in the fire,” Mick says. “So I got drafted.”

“You _what_?”

“I was sixteen years old in ’36 when I died, Lenny. Draft got imposed in ’40, when I was twenty and broke. U.S. entered the war, ’41.” He makes a face. “Let’s put it this way: I _really_ hate Nazis.”

Len chokes on a wet laugh. “I bet you do. That really happened?”

“Really,” Mick confirms. “They pegged me for a pyro, but they said I might as well be used burning down Nazis instead of fucking things up back home. My family’s death went on my permanent record, so it wasn’t like I had any other prospects.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t great. Ended up dying in a POW camp in Germany, age twenty-three, after torching the whole place. Went ghost for a year or two after that; turns out my name went into the history books as a low-grade hero. Got a Medal of Honor after-the-fact and everything. It was weird.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s _still_ weird.”

“Seems like you’re stuck with the superhero bug,” Len jokes. It’s not a very good joke.

“I’d rather be a supervillain with you any day,” Mick says, and shudders again. “Fucking _Nazis_. I definitely did not take as much advantage as I should’ve when we were at that arms auction; I’m sure there were some there that I could’ve hurt.”

“We're on a time ship. I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to light Nazis on fire,” Len assures him. “Worst case scenario, when we get home, we’ll find some neo-Nazis and punch ‘em. Okay?”

“Good,” Mick says fervently. “That was – yeah. Okay. You know, let’s _never_ do anything like that again, okay?”

“Agreed,” Len replies, equally fervent. “That was _awful_.”

Mick nods. His eyes are distant.

Len reaches out and grips his fingers, a fleeting moment of comfort. "It wasn't you that died in that camp."

"No," Mick says, then shakes his head. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't me that got run out my town on a rail, neither, when everyone started blaming me for what happened. Wasn't me that had to scrabble to survive, working every shit job there was and some there weren't, just to have enough to starve with. The Hoovervilles, the lines, the pity..." He shakes his head. "On the bright side, I now know military radio signals and how to rig up a bomb out of nothing."

"You always knew how to rig a bomb out of nothing."

"Yeah, but now I can do it while being shot at."

"Again..."

Mick snorts. "Fair enough."

He makes as if to get up but Len tugs him back down, gently. 

"Yeah, boss?"

Len doesn't want to ask. He doesn’t want to know. But he knows he _has_ to ask. If he doesn't, the Legends will; there's no doubt in his mind about that.

Doesn't mean it makes it any easier.

"Was it – was it better?" Len forces it out. His lips feel numb.

Mick frowns. "Was what better?"

"Your life. If you hadn't died, I mean. For me."

"I didn't die for you," Mick says. "I was always meant to die in that fire." 

"But if – "

"Don't you even think it," Mick says. "It wasn't better. It wasn't any better at all. I'm a ghost, so I'm not say I didn't like those extra few years of life – hell, I'm pleased that I can now confirm that this is actually what I look like when I get older, more or less. But better? Without you? Not at all."

"You were a wartime hero."

"A hero in a war filled with heroes," Mick says. "Heroes and horrors. I still died in a fire, Lenny. In a fire, far away from home, in a land of so many dying that the world choked on it. No. Better what happened." He squeezes Len's hand in return. "Much better, having you."

Len nods. The relief is sweet. 

"You ready to go out?"

Not even slightly.

"Gotta face the music eventually," Len concedes, and gets up. Mick does too.

And they open the door and walk back out onto the bridge.

All the Legends, who were talking, turn to look at them. 

Len arches an eyebrow. "Yes, it's me again," he drawls, all his emotional shields up and firmly in place. When in doubt: snark. That’s the Leonard Snart way. "It ain't been _that_ long."

"Felt like forever, boss," Jax says, sounding relieved, and he comes forward to slap Len on the back – signaling the motion in advance, because he's a good kid. Mick gets (and gives) a fist-bump.

"It's a pleasure to see you yourself again, Mr. Snart," Stein says warmly.

"Thanks, Stein," Len says.

The rest of the Legends are looking a little less welcoming.

"Mr. Snart," Rip says ominously.

Len looks at him. "Yeah, Rip?" he drawls in his most irritating tone. "Can I help you?"

"Thank you," Kendra says quietly.

Len was not expecting that. She's been pretty negative about him recently. "What?"

"Thank you," she says again. "You – or, well, your psycho other self, he revived Carter for me. We got to talk to him, and it turns out he wants me and Ray to be together. Having his approval - that means a lot. Gets rid of a lot of baggage. So, uh, you know. Thank you."

Ray nods like a bobble-head.

"Uh," Len says. "Sure? I'd really prefer not to take credit for anything he did, all things considered. But, you know. Good for you two."

Kendra nods stiffly and heads off, hand-in-hand with Ray, to talk to Mick, who is telling the story of his alternative life to Jax and Stein. They’re both probably still upset about what they had to do with teen Mick.

Hopefully Mick will be able to assuage their guilt. 

Len turns his gaze back to Rip. And Sara, who's standing next to Rip, her arms crossed and her lips pressed together.

"You got something to say?" Len asks, figuring it's best to go straight for the jugular. Turning into a psychotic necromancer due to an accident of the timeline isn't something that you leave hanging to discuss later. It's definitely something they need to clear the air about. 

"You should have informed me about your ability immediately," Rip says. He sounds like he's scolding Len.

Len never did much like scolding.

"I assumed you _knew_ ," he drawls. "You being sent from the future specifically to recruit us as a hand-selected group of legends to save the world – oh, wait, no, that's the lie you fed us, right. I keep forgetting."

Rip flushes. "That aside, did it not occur to you to use this as an asset?"

Len stares at him. "You say that like I haven't _been_ using it," he says. " _Constantly_. To save your asses. Time and time again."

"...I see," Rip says. "Well, now that I do know about it, surely we can use it more effectively against Savage -"

"Savage is a medium," Len says. "He's been using it against _us_. Also, he somehow learned how to detach his spirit in order to _eat_ other ghosts, which I feel certain that I've mentioned at some point - though you may have assumed I was talking in metaphor or something. I’ve been trying to work out a way around that, except all this shit keeps happening."

"...oh."

"You're welcome to help with future planning, though," Len says, only a little sarcastically. He still can’t believe Rip didn’t know. Len hasn’t exactly been _subtle_ about it. But then he turns to Sara. "Sara?"

"How long have you known you could control me?" she asks.

Len doesn't flinch, but it's a close one. "I don't do that," he says instead. “To anyone. Not me as I am now.”

Sara scowls at him.

"I don't," Len insists. "I ask ghosts to do things for me – _ask_ , not order. I give 'em life in exchange. It's mutually beneficial, except when they try to kill me for not giving them enough or as fast as they'd like. I don't control them. I ain’t a necromancer." He shakes his head. “Not like that other me was.”

"How long, Leonard?" Sara asks again, her voice still harsh.

He exhales. "I noticed you were a ghost in a body when we first came aboard the Waverider," he says. "I thought it was unusual, but didn't think on it more than that. Didn’t really know much about the condition. Figured out a bit more when we dealt with the ghost-kids in the '50s."

Sara nods, but her body language doesn't become any more welcoming. 

Unfortunate, but there's nothing Len can do about it.

He regrets that. She’s a good friend, or at least, she was on her way to being one. 

"I wouldn't order you to do anything," he tells her, very serious. "Just know that. I wouldn't. But I can't change that to 'I couldn't'."

"I get that," she says, then sighs. "Intellectually, anyway. I'll need some time."

Len nods, accepting it. 

"I think we all need some time," Rip says. "We'll need to go to ground somewhere – not for long, just briefly. Somewhere where we make the repairs we need to on the Waverider. Somewhere we can get your past selves back into the timeline without the Time Masters locating us. Somewhere where we can pick up Savage's trail once more."

"You have an idea, I assume?" Len asks.

"Yes. It’s called the Refuge," Rip says. "It's – well. It's not the Vanishing Point, where the Time Masters are based, but it's not far off. It's a protected area. The children who grow up to become Time Masters are placed there for their own safety."

"Children who grow up to be Time Masters," Sara says, her expression slowly shifting to one of delight. "Are we gonna meet a mini you?"

Rip looks shifty.

"We _are_!" Sara crows. “Sweet!”

“You will, I hope, refrain from commenting,” Rip says, but even Len can tell he knows how hopeless that request is.

“Guys!” Sara calls, heading towards the second group. “Guys, guess what? Our next mission is to go find _baby Rip Hunter_.”

Rip makes a face.

“You set yourself up for that,” Len tells him.

“I must admit that I did,” Rip says ruefully. "I assure you, Mr. Snart, if I did not believe the respite to be essential, I would not have invited it."

Len shrugs. "It's only human to want to rest and regroup," he says. "But Jax'll kill you if you have him stay on the ship to make useless repairs."

Cisco – ghost Cisco, anyway – was as brilliant as his living counterpart. Len has no doubt that he fixed the ship. Possibly with improvements.

Which means, of course, that Rip’s claim that they need to stop for _repairs_ is total bullshit. 

Rip makes a rueful face, conceding the point. "The Refuge is where I learned to think for myself," he says. "Despite the rigidity of the Time Masters' rules. After enduring quite so much, I find myself needing a moment to – regain that stability, I suppose. That certainty that I am doing something right. Because if we don't attack Kasnia, then I'm afraid the only place to go would be – well, the time in which I was primarily based."

"When your wife and son died."

"Yes," Rip says, then hesitates. "Your ability to commune with the dead..."

"I ain’t a medium," Len reminds Rip. "I can't summon specific ghosts; not unless I know 'em, anyway, and think they’re close enough to shout out their names. And this ship – time ships generally – ain't very hospitable to ghosts, anyway. Only the most powerful can get over the repulsion effect of the timeline."

Rip nods. "What makes for a powerful ghost?" he asks. "Some intrinsic quality, perhaps, or the desire of others..?"

"Age," Len tells him, even though it's not what Rip wants to hear. "Rage. What they regret. Random chance. It's a whole mix of factors. If I see your wife and son, I can make 'em stronger; that's what I do. I could let you talk to them, make them almost real, right up until they’re ready to pass one. But you're still better off with them alive, if you can save them."

"Of course," Rip says. He rubs at his face. "But if not..."

"How many times did you try to save them?" Len asks, suddenly understanding. Not just this conversation, but so much of how Rip has acted, how he’s behaved. He knew Rip was off his head with grief, but factor in time travel...

"So many times," Rip whispers. "Countless times. Each time I thought, if only I go back a little earlier, I can counter it, I can get around whatever it was that tripped me up the previous time. And each time, something new would go wrong. And they'd die again, right before my eyes. Again and again and again."

Rip's hands are shaking, which Len understands; that had to be excruciating to endure. If Lisa – 

Len's not going to think about that. He's had enough of going necromancer, thanks.

"I can't bring them back for you," Len tells Rip, very firmly. "But if we fail, then I'll see if I can find their ghosts for you. Murder victims – probably a pretty decent chance of them sticking around for a bit."

"Thank you," Rip says, and surreptitiously wipes his eyes. "I take it not everyone becomes a ghost?"

"Some of 'em pass on right away," Len says. "The lucky ones, the ones without regret, or ones that just plain old want to get where they're going. Ghosts want to pass on, deep down; they know that's where they're supposed to be going. Most of the ones that stick around have a specific thing to do in mind – say goodbye to someone, eat one last hamburger, play one last prank..." Len makes a face. "See me."

Rip's mouth twitches. "Are you saying you've become something of a ghostly tourist attraction?"

Len makes another face.

"How do they know?" Rip asks. "About you, that is."

"No idea. The dead know things, sometimes."

"And – a language barrier..?"

Len shakes his head. "No language barrier. All the dead speak the same language."

"What, really? All of them?"

"Every last one. I tend to hear it come through as English, since that's what I know, but it’s not. The curse of Babel doesn’t apply to them."

"To lift a phrase from our dear Professor Stein," Rip says wryly, "that's absolutely fascinating. What about – "

Len raises his hands. "Lemme remind you that I _ain't_ actually a tourist attraction, yeah?"

"Right, right," Rip says, looking embarrassed. "Very well. I'll go talk to Gideon about going to the Refuge."

“Sure thing,” Len says, watching him start to go. “And then maybe we can talk about how since you didn’t know about the ghost thing, you _actually_ thought that I’d _kill Mick_ for the sake of _your mission_ …”

Rip trips over absolutely nothing, shoots Len a wide-eyed and frankly horrified gaze, and then flees at top speed.

Len laughs a little under his breath. Yeah, he’s going to get a good bit of mileage out of that before it stops being funny.

He goes to take his seat. Mick comes to sit beside him, which is a comfort. Len's getting real tired of losing Mick. To Savage, to Len's own stupidity, to the timeline -

Wait. The angel – there'd been something about losing something important. Four times. Or was it five?

_How many times has it been already?_


	42. 41

The Refuge is charming, homely, quaint, domestic, and _what the fuck_ levels of creepy. 

“So much is explained about the Time Masters, if they let their kid selves get raised here,” Len whispers to Mick, unable to hide the way his face is scrunching up in disgust. “ _So much_.”

“No kidding,” Mick says, a similar expression on his own face. “I mean, _really_? If you have all of history to pick from, why go with imperialist British orphanage of all things? _Why_?”

“Because the end goal is to destroy the kids’ original culture?” Sara suggests, then looks vaguely horrified at her own words. “Uh. I meant that as a joke, but on second though, that’d kind of make sense, if they’re being raised to be Time Masters.”

“This place is _incredibly_ creepy,” Jax hisses. They can all hear him, since the majority of them - but for Rip - are huddled together out in front of the porch leading up to the place, in what Len can only describe as an instinctive sense of seeking self-preservation in community.

“It certainly does have a particular air,” Stein says. 

“Oh yeah? An air of _what_ , Grey?”

“…horror films,” Stein concedes. 

“You’re not wrong,” Kendra says, wrinkling her nose. “And did Gideon say we were in _Siberia_? I thought that’s what I heard, but it’s all – uh – you know –” She waves her hands futilely at the grounds around her. 

“Charming English countryside spring?” Sara suggests. “With storybook perfect weather?”

“Yeah, that!”

“Come along,” Rip calls cheerfully from further inside the house. “The Matron has scones and jam tarts for you all.”

“Oooh, jam tarts,” Ray says, perking up.

Kendra elbows him in the ribs.

“What?” Ray says. “The place looks fine to me. And we're being offered jam tarts!”

Everyone stares at him for a moment.

After a moment, Kendra crooks her finger for Ray to bend down a little, which he does, looking bemused. Standing on her tip-toes, Kendra reaches up and pets Ray on the head. “It’s a good thing I think hopeless naiveté is cute,” she tells him. 

“Hey, that's not nice,” he says, but he’s grinning with a slight flush. Kendra smiles back, the same dopey look on her face. 

“I’m amazed _you_ noticed this place was weird, actually,” Sara tells Stein. “Mr. Weren’t The '50s A Great Time.”

"Despite your suggestion, Miss Lance, I'm not totally oblivious," Stein sniffs. At everyone's stare, however, he can't help a small smile and shrug. "Well, to be perfectly honest, this building looks precisely like the old country club in the next neighborhood over from where I grew up, which I remember particularly because it didn't permit Jews on the premises - and looked like it was entirely composed of axe murderers that had escaped from the set of the Stepford Wives. In short: very much like this place."

"Stop dawdling!" Rip calls from inside. "What on earth is taking the lot of you?"

They all look at each other.

"It's his home," Sara says reluctantly.

"It's _creepy_ , Sara," Jax replies with a slight whine in his voice. “This is literally the movie where the minorities and women that sleep around die first, okay?”

Sara makes a face. "Yeah, I'm out."

"Well, I'm certainly not survivor girl by that standard," Kendra says dryly, causing Ray to grin. 

"We going in or not?" Mick asks.

"We're still Captain Hunter’s guests," Stein says with a sigh. "Politeness dictates that we be – well, polite."

"Great," Len mutters. Mick steps up behind him, a comforting presence. "Let's go try not to get murdered, shall we?"

"You control ghosts," Sara points out. "Can't you, I don't know, warn us if something goes wrong?"

"Not if she takes out the boss first," Mick points out in return.

"Point taken," she replies, arching her eyebrows a little. "Well, in that case, everyone, we go back to the basics: protect the cleric."

Mick looks at her with glee. "Well, look at that, Blondie's got hidden talents. How we get this long without you mentioning you like D&D?"

Sara grins. "Got into it in college."

"We should have a game on the bridge," Jax says. "It'd drive Rip _nuts_."

Lacking any further excuse not to, they move forward as a group and step into the house.

Nothing happens right away, but the Hansel-and-Gretel-are-in-the-oven feeling remains.

"Welcome," a woman – the Matron? – says, appearing in the entranceway from the kitchen. "Please, do come in; you're most welcome here."

She has a British accent, like Rip's. Len assumes that's where he got it from.

A group of kids runs by, laughing. They seem happy, carefree, cheerful. 

Like something out of a commercial for a drug or an air freshener or something trite like that.

"Uh, thanks," Sara says, the expression on her face saying that her thoughts are going along the same line as Len’s. "For hosting us."

"And not selling us out to the Time Masters," Len adds, eyes fixed on the Matron’s face to see if she'll react.

She doesn't even twitch. "My first loyalty is always to the children I raised," she says, and smiles at Rip, who appears at her shoulder. He seems – younger. Much more relaxed.

Len’s heard that happens with people, sometimes, when they go back home. Certainly didn't happen in _his_ family, that’s for sure.

Makes him wonder how the kids get selected to be Time Masters, actually. 

"How many Time Masters you raise that you got loyalty for?" Mick asks, suspiciously. 

Rip scowls at him. "Mr. Rory, if the Matron says – "

The Matron touches his arm. "Michael, it's all right. It's a reasonable suspicion."

"Michael?" Jax asks, eyebrows going up.

"It's a common name," Rip says stiffly.

"Are you telling us you _picked_ the name 'Rip Hunter'?" Sara asks, not bothering to hide her grin. "What were you, twelve?"

"You didn't answer Mick's question," Len says flatly, ignoring the others and focusing on the Matron.

She meets his eyes. "I will not alert the Time Masters that you are here," she says. "After you leave, and even then only if they think to ask. They know my policies. This place is meant as a safe haven."

Len's not exactly appeased, but she doesn't appear to be lying.

He _did_ notice the use of the word ‘meant’, though. 

"Now, come into the sitting room and we can discuss returning your younger selves to their proper place in the timeline," she says briskly, turning away.

Mick catches Len's eye, nods, and steps ahead of Len; giving Len cover while he focuses to try to see if there are any ghosts around.

Not too many. Barely any, really – there. Just one, but an old one.

Len calls him anyway. They need intel.

"I was resting," the ghost says gruffly when he appears. An old man.

"Sorry to disturb you," Len says in a whispered undertone, trying not to roll his eyes. Resting, really? In peace, presumably. "Just a few quick questions, and I can give you some life for your trouble. This place on the up-and-up? Or should we leave now?"

The old man makes a face. "If Mary says she won't tell anyone 'bout you, she won't."

Len's eyebrows go up. "That ain't an answer to the question I was asking."

"It's the Refuge," the old man says. "Where the Time Masters put the children they stole from history to be taught what they need to know to be good, unquestioning servants of the timeline. You tell me if you’d call _that_ being on the up-and-up."

"You were..?"

"Gardener," the old man says. "And complicit."

Len nods. No wonder he remains behind as a ghost. That's a pretty knotty thread of guilt and regrets there. 

"Very few deaths here, so there won’t be that many ghosts," the man adds. "They take them away, the children, the ones who can't adapt. Put them back where they came, to famine or plague or slavery or neglect..." His eyes are distant and sad.

"One in particular?" Len asks. He knows that familiar look of loss. 

"My little Brigit," the old man confirms. "From the eighth century. Brilliant girl – so kind, so smart. Too smart. They tell 'em they're the cream of the crop of history, sure, but they don't want ‘em to be too smart. Too smart means they start asking questions, and don't stop, and they don't like that. She asked too many."

Len nods. He offers the man some of his life, quietly; he knows it won't help him achieve any task that might help him get closer to passing on, but the man sighs in pleasure and accepts it anyway.

Nothing Len can do here, it seems. He turns away to join the others. 

"What's freshly grown is safe," the man says abruptly from behind him. "Water, too. Don't eat the baked goods. And if Mary protests you leaving, tell her Franz didn't die afraid."

With that unnerving proclamation, the old man – Franz, presumably – fades away.

Len rejoins the others, where Sara is being distracting by peppering the Matron with questions that the Matron is skillfully evading with quaint domestic filler.

Mick and Jax glance at Len.

"Don't eat the baked goods," he mutters. "Fresh food and water are fine."

They nod and fan out to quietly warn the others.

"From here, we can engage in repairs on the Waverider and consider our next step against our enemy," Rip is telling the Matron, who's nodding. "And return our younger doppelgangers, of course – I was thinking we could slip them back into the correct places a few minutes later – "

"I have a small ship that you could use for that purpose while your main ship is being fixed," the Matron says, taking a sip of tea. "You remember the one, Michael."

"Ah, of course," Rip says, chuckling. "You used to take it to go 'shopping', if I recall – typically for medicines, of course, or to get us time-appropriate treats – "

"You always did have such a memory! And it's been years, of course – dear boy, you're welcome to a tart, you know," she abruptly says to Ray, who's been looking at them longingly. "I made them to share."

"Well, I mean, if you insist – " Ray starts.

Mick's hand falls heavy on his shoulder. "We couldn't take 'em from the kids," he says firmly. "Since they were just outta the oven when we arrived, means you started 'em before we came, right?"

“Oh,” Ray says, looking disappointed. 

“You’re welcome to them,” the Matron laughs. “Really, they’re for sharing, and the children will have their own.”

"It's one of Matron's finest tricks," Rip says, beaming at her. "It doesn't matter when guests arrive, she's always ready with a good cuppa and some warm biscuits."

"I'd pay money for an alarm system that good," Len says, playing innocent to hide how the hairs on the back of his neck have started to stand on end. Or rather, continued to stand on end; he doesn't think his hackles have been anything but up the entire time he's been in this place. "I take something of a professional interest in alarm systems, myself. How's it work?"

"A good hostess never reveals her secrets," she says with a smile. "Or leaves a guest unfed. Are the biscuits not to your taste?"

"What's the recipe?" Stein asks abruptly.

"Professor," she laughs. "Now, you know I won't answer that."

Stein smiles apologetically, full absent-minded middle-aged professor mode in effect. "Of course, of course! I wouldn't dream of such a thing. My own wife would put me out of house and home if I revealed her recipes; I understand your objections entirely. It's only, you must understand, that several of our crew are Jewish, and as a result we have certain dietary restrictions; my question was entirely in the nature of being cautious. But no matter! We'll be happy to have some fruit instead, if you have some."

The Matron looks blank for a second. Rip looks a little confused, mostly because they never hinted as much on the ship.

Luckily, Len's willing to bet that Rip never paid enough attention to what Stein was eating to be able to call him out on his bald-faced lie. Which it is: he’s seen Stein eat a bacon cheeseburger with all evident enjoyment. 

But it's an _excellent_ excuse to avoid eating the baked goods while still appearing entirely taken in by the Matron's domestic demeanor.

Len catches Stein's eye and inclines his head a little in approval, causing Stein to smile a little broader. 

Sure enough, when the Matron glances at Rip for confirmation, he shrugs and says to them, "You don't know what you're missing. The Matron’s baking is a rare treat."

"Michael always did like his treats," the Matron laughs. She even manages to pull off not looking annoyed about their refusal to eat. 

Sara brightens. "You must have plenty of stories about him," she says, moving forward. "When he was young, I mean."

"Oh, my dear, I know them all. Let me just get some fruit from the kitchen and I'll tell you all about it – "

“As long as she doesn’t start going into that unfortunate period when I went on a fruit and vegetable craze,” Rip jokes. “I wouldn’t eat any of the biscuits because I was certain they contained non-vegetable products – it got so bad that Matron had to call in one of the Time Masters to have a look at me – luckily by that point I’d gotten a craving for hamburger –”

Len gets up and starts looking around. He knows it's rude, but he's really not interested in swapping kid stories. There's the usual bric-a-brac on the walls – a painting or two so insipid Len wouldn't steal them, a sad looking clock, and an ancient wall calendar.

"Huh," Len says, studying it.

"What's that?" Jax says, twisting around to look at him.

"It's Rosh Hashanah already."

The calendar isn't a Jewish one and Len doesn't pretend to be able to do the conversion himself, but like most mass-produced calendars, the calendar itself announces the fact in tiny small print on the date that's currently circled in red. All the preceding dates are crossed out. 

“Better start being good or you’re going into the wrong book this year,” Mick murmurs, smirking at Len.

Len rolls his eyes at him. “That’s not till Yom Kippur, asshole. I have time.”

"What's that, dear?" the Matron asks, coming back in with the fruit.

"Ah, my colleague was just remarking that it appears that today happens to be Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Years," Stein says. "As well as the start of the High Holidays. It's typically, although not always, in –" He trails off, glancing out the window at the charming spring day outside. "– ah – September." 

It visibly took a second for Stein to make the connection, and yet another for Len to understand, too. It takes another second or two before the faces of the Legends change as they, too, realize how weird it is that the weather looks like spring during a harvest festival. 

Even if one assumes that some future gadget is being used to keep the weather more in a temperate zone, there's no reason for flowers to be budding in the middle of autumn. 

"You have New Years in September?" Ray asks, charmingly oblivious. Len forgives him for it: it's not that he's not smart and observant, it's just that his upper-middle-class instincts are luring him into a sense of complacency. "That's pretty cool."

"We should have some apples," Len says, reaching out and grabbing one from the fruit platter, hoping to change the subject before the Matron catches on to their disquiet. "And there's honey for the tea already set out."

"Traditional holiday celebration," Stein explains for the benefit of the non-Jewish residents of the Waverider. "Apples dipped in honey, for a sweet new year."

"And then you can tell us how it's September when it looks like March outside," Mick says flatly.

Len shoots him a look.

Mick ignores him. He always did prefer to be direct. 

"That's likely a side effect of the protections set on this place," the Matron says thoughtfully. 

"So you can control the weather?" Sara asks.

"I didn't remember that," Rip murmurs.

"Not quite," the Matron says briskly. "It's far more straightforward than that, I'm afraid – though I must say I would rather enjoy having a method of keeping it pleasant! Or sometimes some nice rain, that would be lovely."

"There's something to be said for a light snow, too," Ray says. "Enough for snowballs –"

"How's it work then?" Mick interrupts.

The Matron blinks at him. "Have you some specific interest in weather, my dear?" she asks, her voice teasing, inviting him to deny it and laugh with her, and move along to another subject.

"Just wanna know how you do it," Mick says stubbornly. He did always think that politeness is something that happens to other people. 

"I must say, Matron, I'm rather intrigued myself," Rip says cheerfully, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. "I don't believe I've ever entirely understood the protections of this place."

"Well, Michael, you were a child then," the Matron says. "Oh, what a curious child you were! I remember, there was one instance when – "

"Is it always September?" Len interrupts. He knows it's rude, but Mick threw the dice on a direct question and Len always backs Mick's plays – after a suitable period of whining, anyway. "Or does it go to March or something? Do the seasons change?"

The Matron wants to tell him it's none of his business, Len can see that, but Rip has turned to look at her with the big wide trusting eyes of childhood, and she must be sharp enough to detect that Rip's trust is the only thing keeping the rest of them here. 

"The Refuge is a place out of time," she finally says, grudgingly. "Carved out from the time stream."

"Like the Vanishing Point?" Rip asks, looking surprised. 

"What's that?" Jax asks.

"The Vanishing Point is where the Time Masters are based," Rip explains. "It's a place removed from time – the end of the timestream, so to speak. It's an elaborate space station, fully self-sufficient, and yet time doesn't pass there in the same manner as out here. It gives them a vantage point to study the timeline in its entirety – a broader perspective, one might say."

A perspective like that might be inclined to give someone delusions of godhood, in Len's view. 

"So how are this place and the Vanishing Point related?" Sara asks. "Are they, like, neighbors or something?"

"Hardly," Rip scoffs.

"I was asking the Matron, Rip," Sara says, then smirks. "Mind your manners."

"He always was a pert one," the Matron says, smiling at him; that much, at least, looks sincere. "I do think he took longer to pick up manners than any other skill – combined – "

"Matron!" Rip exclaims, flushing a little.

"I must express some curiosity myself," Stein says, as officiously as always. It’s really working for them here, though. "Matron, I have no doubt you are the expert here – how is this place connected to the Vanishing Point? I wouldn't have expected it."

They all look at her.

"I'm hardly an expert, Professor," she demurs. "My primary role is to raise the children, you understand; I'm not a Time Master."

Statement like that means she has _secondary_ roles, in Len's view. Makes a man curious as to what those secondary roles are.

"What's your best guess?" Jax presses. 

"This place is cousins, of a type, with the Vanishing Point," the Matron says, concealing her annoyance with another sip of tea. "Both are removed, out of time. This doesn't mean that time stops entirely, of course; merely that the rate it passes at is different from the time stream. One of the unusual side-effects is that the calendar doesn't move."

Len blinks. He's not the only one.

"Well, it does a little," she says, shrugging, "but only within a few weeks. The weather changes, on occasion, but the date? Never."

"But it's just a calendar," Len says blankly. "You've crossed out the dates that passed and circled today; can't you just cross out today and move on to tomorrow?"

The Matron shakes her head. "We could, of course, lie to ourselves about it, but all electronic and magical read-outs would tell us the date is what it really is no matter how many times we tried to change them. Even attempting to change the calendar simply results in a state of mental dissonance," She shrugs. "I've always rather enjoyed September, for what it's worth."

"But all the flowers are blooming," Sara protests.

"Oh, yes, that," the Matron says with a chuckle. "We have high tech hydroponics available to us; it helps them grow year round. That must be what confused you! But I assure you, it is, in fact, September. Sometimes the date itself varies - early October, for instance - but it's a nice cozy day in autumn either way."

"And the Vanishing Point is the same way?" Stein asks, fascinated. 

"It is - always a few weeks later than we are, in fact," the Matron says. "Michael, hadn't you explained?"

"I hadn't noticed," Rip says ruefully. "I mean, I noticed that it always seemed to be September or October on the clock, so to speak, but I never noticed that it was because the _calendar_ didn't move – I was never there long enough, you know, between missions. Or, well, I was when I was in the academy, but..."

"You were distracted by Arielle," the Matron says knowingly.

"Miranda," Rip murmurs. "Yes. She was also from here, you know."

"Really," Sara says, leaning forward with an avid expression. "You don't say. Matron, _please_ tell me they were kindergarten lovebirds."

"They were raised in different periods, I'm afraid," the Matron says. "The one time they did meet, they couldn't abide each other."

Rip sits up straight. "We met as children?!" he squawks. "We most certainly did not!"

"Oh, you did," the Matron says, smile going genuine as she launches into the story of that youthful meeting. 

She does seem to love her kids, whatever else there is going on with her. 

Len hands Stein an apple slice. It takes a few tries before Stein notices the offer, but when he does, he accepts absently, intent on the Matron's story, and dips into the honey before taking a bite. Len follows his example, then notices that Mick has drifted over to the calendar.

Len mimics the casual movement. "Well?" he murmurs.

"Even thinking too hard about trying to change this calendar gives me the creeps," Mick replies, voice equally quiet. "That much's true."

"Sooner we're out of here, the better," Len says decisively. "I don't trust places where time doesn't work right. And barely any ghosts, too."

Mick frowns.

"What’s up?"

"I'm not seeing anything you're not," Mick says, slow and intent on not mixing up his words.

"But?"

"You remember how you described that angel? Some sort of sound in your ears that you can't shake?"

Len nods. 

"I got something like that."

"Another angel?"

"Not quite," Mick says. "But – something. Something weird. Almost familiar."

Len frowns. He's liking this place less and less.

"Mr. Jackson," Rip says, loudly enough that Len and Mick turn to look at the others. "You'll be able to take lead on the repairs, won't you? With Mr. Stein's assistance – "

"Sure," Jax says immediately, clearly glad for the excuse to leave. "Me, Grey and Ray can definitely handle the list you gave me earlier."

"Excellent," Rip says. "Then I'll take a small team with me to drop off your younger selves – Ms. Saunders, perhaps, and Mr. Snart."

Like hell Len is leaving Mick in this weirdo place. "Nah," he says. "I've had enough time travel side-effects for today. Sara, you want it?"

"You and your queasiness," Sara says, playing along. "Sure, we'll make it a girl's outing."

Rip clears his throat pointedly.

"Don't worry," Sara says. "You can count as an honorary girl for today."

Rip rolls his eyes, but he looks amused. 

"You're welcome to stay in the Refuge while Michael returns your former selves," the Matron says. "Walk the gardens, explore the library, watch the children play…"

"Sounds great," Ray says enthusiastically. Everyone else echoes him with varying levels of mostly faked enthusiasm. 

Rip sweeps out, Sara and Kendra behind him. Len trails after them into the hallway and catches Sara's eyes.

She slows. 

"Come back soon as you can," Len tells her. "We have that _conversation_ to finish."

"Right," she says, nodding. They need to make their escape without trigging the alarms which clearly surround this place. 

"What about?" Kendra asks in a low tone, watching them both, but sadly it's not quite low enough. Rip turns.

"Oh, you know," Sara says hastily, waving a hand. "The future."

"Oh, have you and Mr. Snart formed a romantic entanglement?" Rip asks.

They stare at him blankly.

"You know," he gestures between them. "I would hardly object; after all, Ms. Saunders and Mr. Palmer appear very happy – "

"No," Sara says stiffly. "Just – no."

She sweeps off.

Kendra sighs pointedly and goes after her, catching Rip by the arm and dragging him along, leaving Len blinking and mildly offended.

That seemed like a rather outsized reaction on Sara's part. Len's taken, yes, and Rip’s comment spoke of vast, _vast_ ignorance of interpersonal relations – which Len can't hold against him given that he was apparently raised _here_ \- but really. He’s hardly _that_ repulsive.

"She was drawn to you," Mick says, having drifted into the hallway and overheard.

"So?" Len asks. "That's the ghost in her."

"She assumed it was because she had to have a thing for you," Mick clarifies. "Didn't know about the ghost thing. She was pretty much over it and all that, but when she found out you could control her, she got twitchy."

...oh.

"Right," Len says, wincing. He hadn’t intended that at all. Still, this is why he's deeply relieved, as always, to have Mick. Solved all his problems – both in understanding the nuances of people and in romantic concerns. "Think she got what I really meant?"

"Yeah, Len," Mick says, looking deeply amused. "I think she got it. Wanna go case the place?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Len says, a smile spreading over his lips. 

Their exploration of the inside of the Refuge is easy enough, if incredibly dull. Terrible wall paper and a few well-hidden dolls and personal items, which obviously Len and Mick aren't stealing. 

No ghosts, as Franz had predicted. Not the creepy quiet of having glass block out the ghosts, but it feels almost like being in the time stream.

The kids mostly ignore them, running and playing or studying. It's positively saccharine. Again, Len can’t help but think that it’s all like something out of a commercial. Picturesque. 

"What's it called when something's too perfect to be real?" Mick asks conversationally, watching some kids – all dressed in cutesy little jumpers and knee socks – play hopscotch in the front parlor. "Valley something?"

"Uncanny valley," Len says. He watches the kids play with almost serene calm and frowns. Kids, in his experience, did not play calmly. He remembers – not his own childhood, but Lisa's, and the games of hopscotch she played were sure as anything a lot less civil.

He stops near the game. "You're playing it wrong," he declares. 

They ignore him entirely. Yeah, that _definitely_ ain't normal.

Mick hums. "Hey, boss."

Len looks at him.

"Lemme give it a shot." He walks over and makes a show of observing them, then shakes his head. "You're playing it wrong."

Five sets of beady eyes immediately fixate on him. 

"Yep," Mick says. "Wrong, wrong, wrong."

One of the girls – there are three girls and two boys – says something that's not in English. It sounds accusing.

"'course I know how to play!" Mick exclaims. "What, you think I'm bluffing?"

General sounds of agreement.

"Well, maybe a little," Mick concedes. "What language is it you all speak?"

A flurry of answers, utterly unintelligible to Len.

"Universal translators, huh?" Mick says, nodding. He glances at Len. "They ain't running right."

One boy says something.

"Interesting," Mick says neutrally. "Didn't know you could remote-control those. And you say they get shut off to keep you from interacting with future people who might mess up your timeline?"

Nods all around.

"Fucking time travel," Len comments with disgust. He's increasingly happy he didn't take Rip up on that babelfish offer; he doesn't want anyone remote-controlling his language ability, much less with the ability to turn everything he says into total gibberish understandable only by other people afflicted with the same problem.

That would explain why it didn't work on Mick, though. The dead aren't bound by the curse of Babel; they speak a language everyone can understand – and they understand all the languages. 

Bet the Time Masters didn’t plan for _that_.

"You all happy here?" Mick asks.

The kids don't seem to understand the question, or at least there's a lot of looking at each other before they answer. Which is pretty telling on its own, really. 

Orphanage filled with kidnapped kids. Worst of all, based on what Franz said, they'd only face worse back in their original times, so Len can't even fairly oppose it. 

Still creepily imperialistic for his tastes. 

"Hey, boss," Mick says, interrupting Len's internal monologue. "Mind if I teach 'em four square?"

Len can't help but smirk. "You do you, Mick. Can't see something like that messing up the timeline too much."

It takes about ten minutes, all told, between Mick's coaching and Len's Mick-translated suggestions, before the kids finally start breaking out of their dazed placidity and start playing the game the way it was meant to be played: with vicious ruthlessness and savagery.

They look a lot more normal that way. 

Mick leaves the square with a pleased expression. 

Len laughs quietly to himself. "Happy now?" he asks. It's good to see Mick grinning about something silly. 

"I'm good," Mick says. "We can go look at the garden now."

Suddenly the kids have forgotten the game to turn to Mick, chattering furiously in their gibberish-speak. 

"Whoa, whoa," Mick says, holding up his hands. "Slow down."

"What're they saying?" Len asks.

"That we shouldn't go out into the garden," Mick translates, frowning. "Or if we do, we shouldn't pass the wall."

"Why not?"

"Because there's something there, outside the wall. It keeps them from escaping."

Len frowns. "Have they tried?"

Mick conveys the question, then scowls at their response. "No. Because no one who's ever made it past the wall has survived it."

"That rumor or..?"

"They say they've seen it, but they don't have details."

Len frowns. "Well, tell 'em we'll be careful." No way he's not checking out the garden now. 

Mick does. The kids give him hugs and wish him luck, before returning to their game. 

Mick looks at Len. "Garden?"

"Garden," Len confirms.


	43. 42

“Well, _that’s_ certainly a reason not to come into the garden ever,” Len says.

“Boss.”

“I mean, it’s really, truly monstrous.”

“Len.”

“Not to mention gigantic,” Len continues. “And positively deformed!”

“ _Len_.”

“What?”

Mick shakes his head, as if that'll hide his smirk. “Heirloom tomatoes are _supposed_ to be ugly.”

“True," Len concedes, shrugging. "But are they supposed to be that large?”

They both look at the frankly gigantic tomatoes sitting ripe in the garden. They’re very nearly the size of grapefruit. Possibly even the size of a cantaloupe. Len’s not actually sure; he's not all that good with fruits before they’re chopped up. That’s always been Mick’s job.

“…maybe?” Mick says dubiously after a long moment of consideration. “I’ve heard things. You know. Specialty breeds.”

“In _Siberia_?”

“Maybe it’s not used to nice weather?”

Len rolls his eyes and walks further out into the garden. It’s a charming garden, of course, just like everything else in this damnable place is ‘charming’ in that picture-perfect unreal way. The flowers are blooming, the vegetables are growing, the bees are buzzing in the background...charming, charming, charming. Not so much as a single weed or a nibbled-on leaf, which even Len, who prides himself on the fact that the only green place he's ever been was the local city park, knows is just wrong. 

Mick picks his way after Len, making a face. “Siberia,” he grumbles. “Tomatoes in Siberia…okay, _that’s_ just not right.”

“What?”

“The zucchini’s the size of my _leg_.”

“Possible?”

“We’re about three seconds away from finding Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage,” Mick says flatly. “Also, those goddamn bees are making a racket.”

“Bees do that.”

“With fruit this size, the bees are probably the size of a small planet. _Each_. And I'm the one who'll have to throw myself between you and them, just you wait...”

Len snickers, already imagining the scene. 

Beyond the improbably sized fruit and presumptively massive bees, though, the garden seems fairly normal, at least at first. It's only once they continue further out that the garden starts to get...strange.

Stranger than it already was, anyway.

"I would've thought it'd make me feel better, seeing things not all trimmed and tamed," Mick says, eyeing the ivy currently crawling up an old stone wall that seems to ring around the more cultivated part of the garden. Or maybe it's kudzu? Len doesn't know, but it's choking the life out of that wall with undue viciousness. "And yet..."

“Yeah, I know.”

"We've traded imperialist restraint for savage wilderness," Mick says. 

"Ain't really an improvement."

"It _should_ be," Mick says, frowning. "Usually is; I hate standard English gardens. But something about this place – it ain't healthy."

Len looks around at the lush, green trees, the almost floridly green bushes and grass, the way everything is flowering around them. "...really?"

"Yes, _really_ ," Mick says. "When I was a kid – real small, mind you, before all the shit started with the dust storms – we had a neighbor that didn't know shit. Kept planting and planting and planting, swearing on his fertilizer. His land gave him everything it could, right up until the point it couldn't anymore, then it died. Kaput. Wouldn't grow so much as a dandelion after that, not for years."

"So, you're saying that this is, what, _too_ healthy?"

"Too ripe," Mick says. He reaches out and tugs at one of the vines. It bursts all over his hand, bleeding green. "It's rotting for all this growth."

Len knows nothing about plants, so he'll take Mick's word on this one. "Matron mentioned some future tech..."

"Nah, she said something about hydroponics. Saw that further back a ways; it's mostly there to water the cultivated stuff. It doesn't do shit like this. Not even future version; I just can't believe it."

"Oh?"

"I mean, someone probably would invent something that would do it if it could, but I don’t think there's anything that can, even in the future. Nature is nature is nature. Actually, maybe that's why all the kids are scared of this place," Mick says thoughtfully. "All this growth? I'm willing to bet the Matron knows that it's not her future tech doing it. She just doesn't want to question it." He scowls. "Are those bees getting louder?"

"We're probably walking nearer to the hive," Len says, though he hears the steadily growing buzz, too. "What's making those absurd plants grow if it ain't her fancy future tech?"

"Maybe the same thing that makes this place stuck in September?" Mick suggests. 

"Wouldn't it be more fruit-y and less flower-y if that was the case, though?"

"Might've escaped your notice, city-boy, but these plants are currently doing both. At the same time."

"And that's...wrong?"

Mick shoots Len a look.

"Joke!" Len says hastily. "I know it's wrong. Spring is flowers, fall is fruit, I know that. I just don't – where _is_ that goddamn hive? I swear, it sounds like we're about to walk into a clearing filled with bees – "

"Len, down!" Mick roars.

Len doesn't take the time to look to see what's wrong, he just throws himself forward and down. Something buzzes right by where he was.

Something which is most definitely _not_ a bee.

Len rolls to his feet and pulls out his cold gun, taking comfort in its familiar rumble even as the buzzing of whatever-that-was grows deafening.

"Mick, what was that?" he asks.

"Familiar-sounding, that’s what," Mick growls. 

"What?" Len asks, but Mick's already gone barreling deeper into the woods. 

Len runs after him. "Mick! Come back!"

"Boss, to your left!"

Len throws himself to the right and whatever-it-is zips past him again. This time, though, he sees it go by.

It leaves smears of light in its trail, crackling like stray bolts of lightning.

And yeah, Mick's right. That _is_ familiar. 

"It's a _speedster_?!"

Mick is chasing a speedster. Of course he is.

Len takes aim with his gun, but it's moving too fast for him to get a lock, and he can't predict this thing's movements the way he could Barry's or even Zoom's – it's erratic, zigging and zagging and doubling back in ways that make no sense. 

Len can't tell if it's chasing Mick, trying to evade Mick, trying to get Len, or if it's just going around at random.

It does keep nearly running into Len, though.

So Len does the next logical thing and aims it at himself, waiting patiently until –

"Len, from behind you!"

Len pitches forward and spins and fires right at where he was previously standing. 

The cold gun's beam goes straight through where the speedster _should_ have been. No hit, damn.

The speedster does make a sound, though, more of that awful buzzing – screeching buzzing, like a high-powered drill.

The terrible noise sounds almost offended, actually. It sounds irritated, it sounds enraged, it sounds –

Like algebra?

Len has just long enough to think _oh, shit_ before Mick is leaping forward with a roar, a roar that is met with the speedster's inhuman shriek.

If this so-called 'speedster' is what Len thinks it is, Mick is picking a fight _way_ above his weight class.

The speedster is going to wipe the floor with Mick and leave nothing behind. 

No. Not while Len's around, he won't.

Len gathers all the life and power inside of him – after his brief and thankfully quickly-fading stint as a necromancer, it's easy – and bellows, "Stop!"

The speedster, which is not a speedster, isn't expecting to be hit broadside by a pulse of Len's power. 

It stops, and for the first time, Len can see it. 

It's both exactly what Len thought it was, and nothing of the sort. 

Yeah, it's an angel. The ghost of a star, or something close enough. 

But it's nothing like the one Len met in the empty reaches of space.

No many-sided wings shining brightly enough to leave the impression of eyes for this angel, no. This whirlwind of power and light is more reminiscent of a wheel, of an animal twisted inside and out like some mad kaleidoscope, some four-footed creature with strange straight unbending legs made of bronze, the bright light shining out of its core colored the gold of flame and sunlight refracted through atmosphere rather than the white of pure starlight. 

A different kind of angel, perhaps.

"What are you?" Len asks. 

It snarls at him, an inhuman sound, a thousand buzzing bees. Its bronze skin, made of pure light and yet somehow conveying the sensation of a single entity, is cracked and pored, like it's been chipped away by a thousand rocks, and where it stands the ground grows rich with plants and growth, all growing with a creaking reluctance, growing and growing until they start to bubble from the inside from all that growth. 

Looks like Mick was right about that being unnatural. 

"I asked you a question," Len says, trying his best to be stern without actually commanding. "What are you?"

It snarls again.

Len's not a necromancer, the memories of his other life – a life where he commanded, rather than just asked – slipping away even as he tries to consult them. He can surprise the ghosts, but he is not their master, not the way the necromancer was. This angel stopped for him because it was surprised, not because it had to; if it decided to attack him, like the world’s worst unquiet dead, then Len would have no defense but Mick.

Mick, who steps forward and asks, "What have they done to you?"

The angel spits and hisses – but does not run.

Mick frowns at it.

"Can you understand it? Uh, him, her?" Len asks.

"No, it's not speaking," Mick says. "It's – it's gone insane, Lenny. I think it's trapped."

The angel - nods. 

The angel can understand them!

"Trapped?" Len asks Mick, starting to frown when the meaning of the words settle in. "I don't – it shouldn't be trapped. It's a _ghost_ , it can't be -" He thinks of Savage's ghost trap and falls silent for a moment. It is possible to trap a ghost, as he's learned to his own regret. He look at the angel. " _How_ are you trapped? Can you move on?"

It hisses. 

"Is there anything we can to do help?" Len presses on. "Let us help you. Let _me_ help you."

The angel seems almost confused, light flickering as if it's jabbing in multiple directions around it. 

"It's _insane_ , Lenny," Mick says, edging around over to Len. 

"It's a _ghost_ ," Len insists. "All ghosts want to pass on, eventually, and all ghosts want my help. I can help it - I think."

The angel speaks. 

It's nonsensical at first – imaginary numbers, brain-twisting, square roots and fractals. There are no words that can be made clear, nothing echoing in Len's brain like stabbing needles, nothing but the numbers. 

"I don't understand," Len says, frustrated. Damnit, the angel is a ghost, a ghost unbound by the curse of the Tower of Babel, and that means he can – or should be – able to understand all ghosts. 

The angel moves abruptly. 

Len doesn't see it, doesn't feel it, doesn't even notice it moving until he's lying flat on his back with an angel pinning him down. Then he definitely notices it, because it _hurts_. 

It hurts, oh, does it hurt, but he also feels – not good, that's wrong, but _healthy_. 

He’s never thought of healthy as a bad thing before.

He can feel his heart swell to pump better, he can feel his muscles churning and growing, his bones ramping up production, his lung capacity expanding beyond his limits, his skin growing faster –

Someone tackles the angel off of Len, and suddenly he can breathe properly again.

He also feels a sudden kinship to the poor growing-too-well plants in the garden.

"Lenny, you okay?" Mick asks, crouching beside him. "You were screaming."

"I was growing," Len says. "I think."

Mick makes a face. "We'll have Gideon check you over. Unbridled growth for humans tends to manifest as cancer."

Len's pretty sure he doesn't have cancer, but he's very happy that they have access to state-of-the-future tech to check and deal with it anyway. 

He sits up, with Mick hovering over him and trying to help when Len doesn't need the help. He sees the cold gun where he dropped it when he fell. And also –

"Wait, Mick, if you're here with me, who tackled the angel off of me?"

Mick nods over to the left.

Len turns to look.

The angel is snarling fragments of incoherent math at the creatures holding it down, and they respond with familiar wordless shrieks, with familiar withered hands, with gaping, shrieking, skeletal mouths. 

Time wraiths. 

"What the hell are your time puppies doing here?" Len asks, bemused . He recalls having summoned them to do something for him when he was a necromancer, but now that he thinks about it, he hadn’t thought about where those ones had come from, either. They were just...there. 

Mick looks embarrassed. “I, uh –” he mutters. “– I may’ve shoved a whole bunch of them into a hidden storage room the back of the Waverider after the whole time pirates thing.”

“Mick!”

“There was never a good time to mention it!” Mick protests.

Len refrains from sighing, but just barely. “Okay, fine, I’ll let it pass this time –” He’d really rather the whole ‘incident following the time pirates thing’ was never mentioned again, really. “– but what are they doing _here_?”

"They didn’t want to come to this place from the start; they were planning on staying in the ship," Mick says, sounding worried. "This place is bad for them.” Catching Len’s expression, which stated firmly that Mick hadn't answered the question asked, Mick shrugs helplessly. “They just came to help, boss. They like us, and they figured out that you were in trouble, and they came to help. That’s why they’re here."

The angel's struggles are fading. Len still can't look at it right – pockmarked skin, almost glittering, the gold-bronze of reflected sunlight – but he thinks it's reaching out for the time wraiths. Not in violence, anymore, but almost in supplication. 

It's speaking.

Nonsense at first, but in time it resolves itself into actual calculations. 

The speed of light, repeated over and over and over again.

Len's not entirely sure about the translation – some things don't translate well – but he thinks it's saying something like 'sister'. Or 'family'. Or 'loved one'. 

Or maybe it's just calling out for the songs it once sang in the depths of space. 

"Can you understand us?" Len asks it, rolling up into a crouch and picking up his cold gun from where he dropped it. 

The angel is rocking back and forth, but Len thinks he sees it nod.

"Then the time puppies should go," Mick says firmly.

The angel makes a sound of negation.

"They're in danger here!" Mick exclaims. "Look at 'em, they're scared."

It takes Len a minute or two to parse the expressions on the wraiths' zombie-like faces, but in fairness Mick has always been better at reading people than him.

"You don't want them trapped here," Len says, lending his voice in support of Mick. "Not – not like you were. Are."

The angel is still rocking back and forth, but this time Len can definitely see it when it nods. 

"Go on, then," Len tells the wraiths, who look deeply relieved to scatter and zip away as fast as they can – much faster than they normally go. 

The angel has shifted over to muttering calculations that sound a lot like the ones Gideon uses for time travel. It clearly misses the wraiths already.

"We're still here," Len reminds the angel, putting as much of his power in his voice as he dares without accidentally summoning a bunch of ghosts to this unhealthy place, assuming he even can. "Can we help you?"

The angel just moans in agony.

“I’ve met one of you guys before,” Len tries. “They talked to me.”

Nothing.

Len licks his lips, and tries a gamble. “Maybe you know them. Name of –”

The angel of deep space’s name is emblazoned into his mind so deeply that it sometimes hurts even to think about, that dazzling stream of math, and Len’s still not sure how to pronounce it but something comes out of his mouth nonetheless. 

For the first time, the angel looks right at him.

Len flinches a bit at the weight of that regard.

" _I fell here_ ," it says, a jagged string of complex theorems.

Mick rubs at his ears. "Is that _math_?" he asks.

"How'd you get stuck?" Len asks, ignoring Mick.

" _They encircled time_." Yeah, those are definitely not math notations Len recognizes. They may or may not be real math – or math that humanity has yet discovered. " _The Well is in the sea. It dams the flow. It casts shadows._ "

Nope, they've got back into nonsense. At least it's words – or at least, math-as-words – this time. 

" _We are all within the shadow. There is no time. There is only time. We are all knots, knots, knots in a string._ "

"What are you?" Len asks. "Like I said, I've met – the ghost of a star, before. You look different. Are you some sort of different, uh, level?" 

Angels have levels, right? Or did humanity just invent the whole hierarchy thing because they were used to it?

" _Star? Star. Star, star, star – what is?_ "

"In the sky," Len says. "Y'know, you can see them twinkle when it's dark?"

" _My sisters_."

The word isn't quite sister, isn't quite brother, is family and isn't family, but rather means _connection_ , means _one of our own_. Len suspects he hears it as ‘sister’ because Lisa’s the only family he’s got. 

He wonders what Mick hears.

" _They sing_ ," the angel says, a wistful sigh of basic arithmetic. " _Songs through space, dark songs, light songs, soft songs, hard songs. Frequencies._ "

"Yeah, one of those. All white light shining hard enough to come across like eyes on wings...?"

" _One of the great guides_ ," the angel says. " _Those which fly together in concert in the great dance. I am not so great. I am a traveler. I am cold and hard, I am swift and unbound, I fall._ "

Len blinks. He has no idea what that means.

He glances at Mick, who's better at riddles.

Mick is frowning.

" _I fell here_ ," the angel says. " _Fell, fall, fallen. Thick. It was all right at first. I still heard the song. They don't sing to me anymore, now. Their songs are frozen. This place is frozen. The Well will swallow it whole._ "

"Cold and hard," Mick says, still frowning. "Ice and rock, maybe? Like a comet?"

"A falling star," Len says, then sighs. You know what, sure. Why not? 

His puns are coming back to haunt him so bad that he can’t even bring himself to make his usual joke about being ‘haunted’. 

Okay, apparently he can. But at least he's managed to resist making it out loud. That's something, right? 

Enough of that. If the angel was a comet – or a meteorite, whatever – and it fell, then why..?

"Oh, shit," Len says. "The meteorite is somewhere _inside this garden_."

"Obviously," Mick says.

"No, Mick, think about it. They've taken this place out of time somehow, right? That's what the Matron said: it's like the Vanishing Point place she was describing. She said the same thing was true of that place and this place: a place out of time, somewhere they can look at time from the outside. When they take somewhere out of time, it gets stuck; that's why it's always September or October here. But that means the ghost is stuck here – it can't leave, it can't pass on, it can't even hear what the stars are singing. Because this whole place is frozen."

"Nothing can keep a ghost from passing on except a medium," Mick objects.

"Then maybe the way they pull these places out of time has something to do with mediums, I don't know! But that's the problem. It can’t hear the stars because time doesn’t move right, and it can’t pass on for the same reason."

"Wouldn't there be more ghosts if that was the case, though?” Mick says skeptically. “Gardener said they didn't like to have deaths here, but no one's _perfect_. There would've been accidents, suicides, something."

Len has to admit Mick's point. But –

"Doesn't really matter now," he says reasonably. "This one's the one we need to worry about. It's gone insane being here such a long time; it's our job to get it free."

" _Time, time_ ," the angel says. " _Always rushing. Are you one of my sister's children?_ "

"Uh," Len says. Is that even possible? Either biologically or, uh, _logistically_? 

" _No, you aren't_ ," the angel concludes sadly. " _Not fast enough. You leave no light as you run, no shadows in your wake –_ "

"Wait a sec. Is it talking about _speedsters_? And the Speed Force?" Mick hisses. "You telling me the _Speed Force_ is an –"

"How do we get you out of here?" Len interrupts both Mick and the babbling comet-angel because there are some things he doesn't want to even consider. "Would it help to take the meteorite out of here?"

"If it's been here as long as it sounds like, it's probably eroded to dust by now," Mick says. "For all the 'outside of time' thing, it's not like time isn't moving at all - the children grow up, after all, stuff happens. I don't think there'd be anything left to take out of here - even assuming that that would be enough, which for most ghosts haunting a certain location, it wouldn't be."

"There's got to be _something_ we can do," Len says firmly.

" _Key_ ," the angel says.

They look at it. It's staring back towards the house with hungry eyes. 

" _The house has the key to restart time_ ," it says again. " _I cannot go. Cannot interfere. I go straight through. I need the key. Only for a second. I only need a second._ "

The word it used was not second. The math suggested that it was much, much smaller an increment. 

"We'll find you the key," Len promises. 

The angel doesn't look like it believes him. 

Mick doesn’t look all too pleased, either. 

"C'mon, Mick," Len says. "Let's go have a chat with the Matron about keys."

The angel is mumbling to itself again, its speech dissolving into inchoate math. 

Mick eyes it warily. "Yeah," he says, clearly deciding that venturing back to the House of Creepy is better than staying here. "Let's."

They head back to the house. The overly large fruit and the rottenly green trees are less funny now. 

When they breach the tree-line, they see that they've got company already waiting for them.

The Matron is standing at the gate to the garden. Her eyes are cold and her posture still and uninviting, the opposite of the domestic motherly figure she tried to portray before. Her hands are on both sides of the wall, and the wall itself glimmers with what looks like electricity. 

"You shouldn't have left the garden," she says. 

Her voice is cold, too.

"You said we could wander," Len says, his hand falling onto his gun. He doesn't like the look on her face.

"House, garden, yes," she says. "Not the forest. You should've been repelled by it; the garden gates are equipped to do that."

Len hadn't noticed anything of the sort.

"Unless, of course, someone warned you of it in specific," the Matron adds, her eyes narrowing. "Which ought to be impossible."

"Well, you know what they say about 'ought'," Len drawls, sending a mental thanks for Mick’s gift for languages. "Now, you gonna let us back in?"

The Matron looks at him steadily. They both know the answer is going to be 'no'.

They both know that she has no plans on letting them be _alive_ in a few minutes. 

"We just need one thing," Len says, figuring it’s worth a shot to try to persuade her – or, at the worst, buy a little time to think of a better plan. "Then we'll leave on the Waverider, no harm, no foul."

She arches an eyebrow.

“Really,” Len insists. Mick shifts behind him, not quite moving, but not quite staying still, either. “One little thing. We won’t disrupt your Refuge.”

“Really,” she says skeptically. “And what is this ‘one little thing’?”

“We need you to turn off the thing that makes this place frozen in time,” Len explains. No harm in trying the direct approach, now that sneaking in and stealing the key is most definitely off the table. “Just for a second. That something you can do?”

"Why were you two so reluctant to eat my food?" the Matron asks instead of answering. "Really, I was offended as a hostess."

The attempt at homeliness falls flat. It doesn't match her eyes anymore.

"Better question," Len says. "What was in it? Rip got up and left, so it wasn't sleepytime or anything like that. Some sort of tracker, maybe?"

Her eyes narrow.

"The Time Masters getting nervous about how well we're doing, huh?" 

Mick stands, sure and strong and silent, by Len's shoulder. He's a comforting presence, especially right before a fight.

And Len's pretty sure this is going to end in a fight.

“Bet Rip’ll love to hear that,” Len adds. “He was so sure you wouldn’t sell us out.”

"My loyalty is to my children," she says.

"And how many of those children are Time Masters right now, like 'Michael' used to be?" Len asks. 

She's silent.

That’s what Len thought. He even believes her that her loyalty is to her children, or that she thinks it is; he just thinks that _most_ of her children, all grown up, are Time Masters. She's loyal to the Time Masters, and the Time Masters are up to something, and she's helping them.

Though now that Len thinks about it, maybe ‘most’ isn't the right word. 

"Better question," Len says, changing tactics. "How many of those children that you're so loyal to end up being sent home to die, because they didn't fit in just right?"

A muscle in her jaw works. 

Len's hit a sore spot. 

"How many of 'em are sent to die when they're older?" Mick says, his voice low. "How many of 'em are like Miranda – no, you called her Arielle. She got murdered to make your precious Michael jump through the Time Master's hoops, and he's gonna get murdered for doing it."

"He'll be rehabilitated," the Matron says. She’s not denying Mick’s guess about Miranda, though, which says plenty all on his own.

"They've already tried to kill him once," Mick says.

"The Hunters were given kill orders on us, too," Len adds. "When we came too close."

The Matron says nothing.

"They really are working with Savage, aren't they?" Len says, shaking his head. He’d suggested it to Rip, based on Svetlana’s comments; he’d even been pretty sure that they were working in parallel, but this is proof of actual collusion that he’d never expected to have. 

The Matron shifts, just the slightest bit. Her eyes flicker. The slightest denial – no, not denial. Modification. 

Of course.

"Fixing the timeline with small adjustments, that's what the Time Masters do, ain't it?” Len says. “They’re not just working _with_ him. They're working _on_ him. They're using _us_ to move things around in _his_ timeline, so that they can use him for – something."

"I couldn't comment on their plans," the Matron says, her voice harsh.

"You don't approve of 'em, either," Len says, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. "So let us back in, and let us go."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she says. She almost manages to sound regretful. "You've gone into the forest."

"So what?" Len says challengingly. "Why do you care about the forest?"

"It's unnatural," she says. "It kills anyone who goes in there. I won't risk the contamination spreading to my children."

"There's no contamination," Len scoffs. He's pretty sure, anyway. Best to check about that cancer business when he gets back to the ship.

"You go out and you come back, demanding that I destroy the safety mechanisms which protect this place, and you say there's no contamination?" the Matron sniffs. "I see it's gotten into your heads."

"You're torturing it!" Mick bursts out. "It's hurting, that's all. It just wants to hear the goddamn stars and pass on; that's everyone's right. You have no right to keep it here."

The Matron frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Len frowns as well. Rip hadn't know about his ability, which didn't necessarily mean the Time Masters as a whole didn't, but surely if they knew, they would tell the Matron...?

"Was it an accident?" he asks her. "Or did you trap it here deliberately?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"How'd you pick this place?" Len asks, starting to get a suspicion.

"It was one of the locations connected to the Vanishing Point," the Matron says. "It was susceptible to being pulled out of time."

Len's willing to bet that the Time Master's Vanishing Point and the angel's Well are the same place. This place is connected, somehow, and whatever the Time Masters are up to there has somehow splashed over to here.

And the angel suffers for it.

"You have to let it go," Len says. "Just for a second – a _millisecond_ – but that'll be enough." He takes a step forward.

The Matron's hands curl over the gate walls. There are undoubtedly some defenses there that Len can't see.

"Or do you not know what's out there?" Len asks.

She pauses.

"You don't, do you?" Len says. "They told you it was a contamination. But it's not. It's a _person_. It's been trapped here so long, it's lost its mind. Tortured, forever, by _you_."

"That can't be," the Matron says. "It’s a contamination, an illness. The people who die out there die horribly. Growths, cancers, rotting from the inside – _aging_. Their lives drain away no matter what we try to do."

"It's stealing life from them and trying to give back," Len says. Having felt it, he doesn't doubt that it's true. "It wants to connect with them. It just doesn't know how; humans don’t speak the same language it does. It’s too much for us. But it doesn't mean any harm. It just wants to be free."

He takes another step forward.

"You're lying," the Matron says, but her voice is shaky.

"You don't want to hurt someone like that, now that you know it's happening," Len says. "You don't want that to happen."

"It killed so many of them," the Matron says. “My children.” 

Len takes another step forward and looks her in the eyes. "Matron," he says gently. "Franz died unafraid."

She's rocked back by that, he can tell. 

Her hands loosen on the walls of the garden for the slightest moment.

That moment is all Mick needs, having gone invisible when the Matron was focused on Len and walked through the wall behind her, to grab her and pull her back.

The Matron exclaims in dismay, but Mick quickly muffles her with his palm.

"I think you're good to come in," he tells Len. "I can see the control pad from this side, but I don't think anything's been fully activated yet."

Len walks through to the other side.

He braces himself, but there's nothing. Looking back, though, he can see the futuristic control panel on the inside of the gate, filled with force-fields and high-voltage electricity and possibly lasers. The Matron hadn't been planning an immediate death, it seems; she'd been hoping to capture them.

What for, Len's not sure, and he doubts that she's feeling particularly chatty.

"We need to find the key to unlock this place," Len says. 

Mick nods. "Inside."

They go inside, the Matron in tow. They're not five steps in through the door to the parlor, Len just opening his mouth to propose a plan, when someone bellows, "What are you _doing_?!"

"Rip's back," Mick says unhelpfully.

"Unhand her this instant!" Rip demands from the doorway into the parlor, his eyes flashing as he stares at them dragging his precious mother figure along with them. He strides further inside even as Len and Mick back away towards the wall; Kendra and Sara are at Rip's back, and they both have doubtful expressions on their face. Sara hasn't trusted Len since she discovered his ability, and she never entirely trusted Mick; Kendra, on the other hand, gravitated towards Mick early and disliked what she perceived of as Len's treatment of him, but the revelation that Mick was a ghost had shaken her faith in him.

This particular group of people isn't the best hand to draw, let's put it that way.

Len holds up his hands placatingly. "Don't worry," he says. "We're acting in self-defense –"

"Whoa, guys, what's going on?" Ray says from the doorway behind Rip, gaping.

Also not helpful. 

Damnit, where are Jax and Stein when Len needs some faith?

Mick turns to say something to Ray, but the Matron uses the slight shift to pull her head out from under his hand – she's already tried biting him, to no avail – and shouts, "Defend me!"

Rip pulls out his six-shooter.

Shit.

"Rip, we can explain –" Len tries, but Rip's already fired the first shot.

Len dodges as best he can, but the best he can do still gets him a nasty laser burn on his thigh, and that's more luck than anything else.

"Give us a chance to explain, damnit," Len shouts, ducking behind one of the parlor chairs. It's flimsy protection, but he needs to get his cold gun up and ready. 

"Rip, hold up," Sara is saying. "Stop shooting – they're our _teammates_ –"

"The Matron is in danger!" Rip exclaims, utterly ignoring her. 

"Rip!" Kendra exclaims, grabbing at his arm, only for him to snap that arm out under her guard and punch her in the stomach, hard.

She falls back on the floor, clutching at her belly and trying to breathe.

"Rip!" Sara shouts, slipping into a fighting stance and lunging for Rip, only for a blaster shot to knock her down.

"...Ray?" Kendra whispers.

Sure enough, it was Ray who fired the shot, wielding the gauntlets of his ATOM suit, his eyes vacant. "The Matron is in danger," he repeats creakily, and then turns to fire on Mick.

"I think he snuck one of those goddamn jam tarts when we weren't looking," Mick snarls. “Damnit, Haircut!” He still has the Matron in his arms, and he’s not willing to let her go. 

Ray raises his gauntlet.

Mick turns his back on Ray, letting the blaster shot catch him dead in the center of the back, knocking both him and the Matron to the floor with grunts of pain. 

If Mick hadn't been already dead, that might've done it.

Len gets his cold gun out, meaning to turn and ice Ray's hands off – Gideon could repair shit like that, right? Or maybe they'd get him some fancy prosthetics, right now Len’s not feeling all too picky after seeing Mick tossed around like that – but then something more urgent occurs to him.

He dashes forward and shoves Ray to the side, then braces his feet and ices the doorway shut with a wall of solid ice.

He's just in time, finishing the wall right before the first wave of vacant, dead-eyed kids come running at them.

Coming to protect their precious Matron.

There’s a lot more of them in this building than he’d realized.

Len activates the comms system. "Jax! Stein! We're under attack!"

Nothing answered but a dull crackle of empty static.


	44. 43

"Do you guys ever _not_ get in trouble?" Sara asks, her arms crossed.

"Hey," Len protests mildly, though privately he agrees. This trip has just been one bout of bad luck after another. "I ain't the one who uses jam tarts to brainwash people."

"I can't believe Ray ate one of those after we specifically told him not to," Kendra says, looking down at Ray. Ray's head is in her lap; Sara knocked him out pretty quickly after she got over the initial surprise at seeing Ray attempting to murder his teammates. 

"He didn't really think there was a problem," Mick points out with a shrug. 

"He should've believed the rest of us," Kendra says, but the way she gently moves her fingers through his hair belies her harsh words. "I hope he's okay."

She doesn't look over at Rip when she says that. Kendra brought Rip down herself, hawk wings and red eyes emerging alongside screams of accusation that Rip had stolen Carter from her with his mission as she threw herself bodily at him in what ended up being a very quick fight. There were clearly some lingering issues there. Just as clearly, Kendra obviously wasn't comfortable with having expressed them quite so viciously.

Rip is currently tied up and gagged to make sure he doesn't do anything else to the Waverider.

That's their assumption, anyway; no one has heard anything from Jax or Stein since they went off with Ray to repair the ship, and judging by the determined way that Rip keeps struggling despite his bonds, his eyes blank as he ignores all logic and sense to keep trying to obey the Matron's directive, they're pretty sure Ray wouldn't exactly be available for questioning if they woke him up.

Len hates the fact that he doesn't know where Jax and Stein are or how they're doing. 

He hates the fact that they're trapped in this ugly parlor room. 

He hates the fact that there are no ghosts around, other than the angel and sad-faced Franz, who hovers over the Matron's bound form.

Oh, and he _hates_ the repetitive thuds that come from the thick layer of ice that covers the doors, the thuds of little brainwashed bodies throwing themselves futilely at it in an attempt to rescue their beloved Matron. 

"This is seriously fucked up," Mick says, glancing over the same way. 

"No kidding," Sara says. She looks over at the Matron, who's gone stonily silent. "Can't you call them off? For their sake?"

"Her loyalty is to her kids," Len says piously, then sneers. "At least until it's inconvenient, that is."

"How dare you," the Matron snaps, aggravated out of her silence at last.

"You feed your kids baked goods that brainwash them," Len snaps back. "Doesn't sound all too _loyal_ to me."

"My children need it," she says stiffly.

"Trust me, as someone who's been there? _No one_ 'needs' brainwashing," Sara says. "How _could_ you? They trust you!"

"It's to keep off the effects of temporal drift," the Matron says.

"Temporal drift?" Kendra asks, looking up again.

"When a person is removed from their time period for too long, they begin to detach emotionally from their surroundings," the Matron says. "They lose the ability to form real connections and with it, their ability to objectively judge a situation."

"So they turn into sociopaths?" Sara says. "Sounds like that would help being 'objective' in the face of suffering."

"Don't be absurd," the Matron says cuttingly. "Yes, temporal drift cuts off an individual's ability to properly evaluate risk or to empathize with others, but we don't permit it to happen: it can be staved off by surrounded people with others that hail from a similar era, or if a person slowly becomes accustomed to the effects of the drift."

"So that's why Rip picked all of us up from the same year," Kendra says. "I'd wondered."

"The medicine in the biscuits and tarts –" the Matron starts.

"Brainwashing drugs," Sara says, holding up a hand. "Call it what it really is. They used to call it loyalty tea in the League; that didn't make it any better."

"The drugs, then. They are designed to make it easier for the children to adapt to temporal drift in a peaceful manner," the Matron says. "It encourages certain bonds –"

"Bonds to the Time Masters' goals, I bet," Len interjects. "And to you. But not so much to each other, huh?"

"Those kids we saw earlier weren't friends," Mick agrees. "They barely remembered how to play with other kids."

The Matron is stiff-lipped, but Len thinks he detects the slightest bit of guilt in her eyes.

"We taught them a few games," Len says. "Took 'em a while, but they were finally laughing – really laughing, ugly laughing, not that freaky picture-perfect commercial bullcrap they were doing earlier."

The Matron's face twists into an expression of wistfulness and hope, just for a second, before she regains control.

"You really love them," Sara says, sounding surprised. She'd seen it, too. 

"Of course I do," the Matron says. Her back is as stiff as a board, and her jaw is clenched, but Len doesn't doubt that she's telling the truth as she understands it. "I raised them. All of them. They're _my children_. And whatever they choose to do with their lives later, they are always my children here, forever."

"That's creepy," Kendra says. "People should grow up. They shouldn't – they shouldn't linger forever. It's not right." She makes a face. "Trust me."

"You're hurting 'em," Len reminds the Matron. "And you're hurting what's out in the forest past the garden, too."

She looks away. The other Legends look curious, but keep quiet about it.

"Has the forest always been there?" Len asks, keeping his eyes fixed on her. "Were you here from the beginning?" He pauses. "Was it an accident, or..?"

"Even if what you say is correct," the Matron says, "and I don't believe that it is, it was _obviously_ an accident."

"Was it?" Len asks, glancing up at the invisible Franz.

"Certainly," the Matron says haughtily.

Franz won't meet Len's eyes.

"Are you sure?" Len presses.

He ignores the Matron's blustering response, more interested in the guilt on Franz's face.

"Why would they keep it trapped deliberately?" Len asks, cutting the Matron off, his eyes fixed on Franz. "Let's assume they did, huh? What would the reason be?"

"There is no reason!" the Matron exclaims. "That's what I'm _telling_ you, that there is no purpose for such an act - we're not monsters, whatever you may think - and therefore in the unlikely event that you are not lying about the contamination –"

"They needed anchors for the Vanishing Point," Franz whispers, barely audible over the Matron's desperate attempts to justify what happened. "To hold it down. I saw the markers. They were Time Master work."

"Markers?" Mick murmurs. 

"Mechanical guideposts. They help keep the Vanishing Point steady."

Len glances at Mick, who nods and gets up silently. He'll go find them and bring them back as proof, and check on Jax and Stein in the meantime.

After all, he isn't stopped by ice doors, or dead-eyed children, or even walls.

"– that it’s an accident doesn't matter," Kendra is saying fiercely to the Matron. "We all make _choices_. That's what you're supposed to teach someone, if you're raising them. If you know someone is in pain – if you even suspect it – and you can do something about it, you _have_ to do something about it. It's your duty as a human being. Choosing to do nothing is still a choice!"

"My first duty is to care for the children," the Matron protests.

"The children that are currently _hurting themselves_ trying to get in here to rescue you?" Sara asks. "Damnit, Matron, we won't hurt them if you make them stop, and we're not hurting you, so letting them keep this up is doing no-one any good."

"If you don't want to hurt them, you need to let them go," Len says. 

The Matron glares at him. "I have _no choice_ ," she grinds out through her teeth. "I cannot 'let them go', as you say. If the children are found to be unfit, they are sent home to god-knows-what fate, and if they are fit, then they become Time Masters and to do anything else would be to invite paradox and destroy the timeline. I can only do my best for them while they are here –"

"The best is never going to be knocking themselves into a wall of ice," Sara snaps. "They have to be _free_ , damnit – free to live their lives and make other choices -"

"Sara," Len says. "It's not that easy."

"Snart!"

"The one in the garden we have to free, because it's hurting people and hurting itself," Len says. He doesn't want to meet Sara's furious gaze for what he's going to say next. "The others ain't so easy. She's probably right about paradox."

"They're children and they're being _brainwashed_! I don't see how that isn't enough for you!"

“‘Michael’ is here, ain't he?" Len asks the Matron, who hesitates. "Well? Tell us the truth."

She nods.

"Michael – wait, as in _Rip_?" Kendra exclaims.

"Wait, he's here _right now_?" Sara asks, and Len can see in her eyes that she's starting to understand the problem. 

"If Rip never grows up to be a Time Master, we never go on this mission –" That doesn't sound so bad at the moment. "– and we end up in a recursive time loop."

"Time will eventually fix itself," the Matron says grudgingly. "It'll rip holes in itself to do so, but eventually, it'll be fixed. Usually for the worse."

"So, what, we just have to _let it happen_?" Sara asks, scowling. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Sometimes, there's nothing you can do," Kendra says. She looks down at Ray. "I don't want to leave them like this, and I agree with you that it's morally reprehensible, but what can we do about it? Hurt _more_ people? Destroy the timeline, the way we risked doing when we tried to save the younger version of Mick?"

"At least we'll be doing some good before we leave," Len tells Sara, though her expression indicates that it's not helpful. "When we find that key – "

"You _cannot_ restart time," the Matron says quickly, trying to capitalize on her momentum. "If you do, the consequences – "

"This is an injustice that has been going on for too long," Len says sharply. "I'm willing to be flexible about avoiding paradox with the kids, because I really do think that the adult Time Masters won't hesitate to throw some of their colleagues' younger selves back to die, but you've given me no reason to think that letting someone you’ve _driven insane_ go would be an issue."

"Our defenses – "

"You're in the middle of _Siberia_ and we need to turn them off for a _minute_ , max," Len says. "What in the world are you afraid of?"

The Matron is silent.

"Do you even know?"

The Matron is silent.

Everyone's silent, actually; Sara and Kendra brooding over the moral issue, Mick on assignment, the Matron sunk into her own thoughts –

Actually, now that Len thinks of it, it's _too_ quiet. He's not sure when was the last time he heard the children banging at the door.

"Where'd the kids go?" Len asks, twisting to stare at the eerily silent doorway.

Sara frowns. "I haven't heard them for a while, actually. Damnit, Matron, what have you done now..." She trails off. The Matron has gone white. "What is it?"

"They shouldn't have stopped," the Matron says, her eyes fixed on the iced-over door. "They're my children; they wouldn't abandon me – what happened to them? What happened to my children?"

"Try it on someone who doesn't know about the brainwashing," Sara snaps. Len's feeling a mite sympathetic himself, though: he also wants to know what's happened to the kids. 

"What have your people done?" the Matron demands.

"We've been sitting here the entire time," Len points out, quite reasonably.

"Yes, well – wait. Where is the other one? The big one, with the burns?"

Oh, lovely. _Now_ she notices that Mick has gone. 

"You planning an ambush?" Len asks instead, levering himself up. "If I go out to check on the kids and they jump me, I'm gonna have to shoot, and that'll be worse for everyone."

"It's nothing of my doing," the Matron says. "I swear it. Please, the children – "

Len is such a goddamn sap.

Sara rises as well and comes over to him as he studies the iced over door.

"Can't you send someone else?" Sara asks, sotto voce. "One of your – " she wiggles her fingers, apparently indicating ghost. 

"There are almost none here," Len says honestly, voice also low. "Franz – he used to be the gardener – doesn't want to leave the Matron, and he's the only one I've seen beyond the one in the forest."

"She said the thing you encountered in the forest killed people – "

"By _accident_."

"Not the point. If they got killed, and no one can move on, where are they?"

Len frowns. "Good point."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"Problem for later," Len decides. "Doesn't change the fact that we need to figure out what happened to the killer kiddies, preferably without being ambushed."

Sara snorts. "Good luck with that."

Len finds the break point in the ice and shatters it with a single blow from his gun, then rears back, gun at ready, anticipating an attack.

Nothing.

Okay. 

Len creeps out to the hallway, gun at ready. The kids are –

The kids are fast asleep. Big, medium, small, teenagers to toddlers, they're all curled up on the ground like they all collectively decided to go naptime.

"What the fuck?" Len asks. 

Sara pokes her head out. "Uh, yeah. Seriously, _what_?"

"What happened?" the Matron calls.

"They're all unconscious," Sara says. 

"Asleep," Len corrects. "Look at the way they're lying."

"You're right," she replies. "Like they laid down of their own free will. That discounts most knock-out gases..."

"Let me see!" the Matron cries.

Sara pulls her head back into the room, only to re-emerge a second later with a still-bound Matron leaning against her. 

"What did this?" the Matron asks, seeming honestly aghast. 

"Time Masters," Mick's deep voice replies from the door.

Len turns with a smile that only gets broader when he sees Jax and Stein behind Mick, looking fine and safe and healthy. He's so happy to see them he's not even going to yell at them for not answering their goddamn comm units when he called. "You figured out a way to stop the kids?"

"Nope," Mick says. "It's a built in failsafe if you try to mess with the time of this place." He holds out a small device, like a remote control with mechanical spider legs. "It's got a frequency tied to the babelfish devices – it’s just lucky that the Waverider’s are on a different frequency, or we’d have a problem. Luckily, it's a sleep order, not a kill order."

"A _kill_ order?" the Matron asks, looking shocked.

"You were right," Mick says to Len, ignoring her. "The angel wasn't stuck here by accident when they built this place."

"What?" the Matron asks.

"Angel?" Sara asks.

"The whole point of this place is to keep it here," Mick continues. "Us talking with it triggered the markers to be activated in case we tried anything, and just as we were doing that, Jax and Stein accidentally came across one and it shocked 'em as a defense mechanism. Feisty little things, like little robots. They tried to disable the ship, though we stopped that."

"I didn't know about those defenses," the Matron murmurs. She sounds shocked.

"As far as I can tell – and it's mostly just guessing – but I don't think it's entirely one-sided, with this place anchoring the Vanishing Point. I think whatever system the Time Masters built at the Vanishing Point, it has side effects here."

"No passing on for the angel," Len says. "And no ghosts of the rest."

"Even Franz is vanishing off – somewhere," Mick confirms. "Look at how weak he is compared to how much he regrets. I've got no idea why, but this place is designed to suck up power. I'd bet they tried it all over and this was one of the few that worked – "

"Because the angel had enough power," Len says, frowning as his concern grows. "But, Mick, the angel is a ghost –"

"Are they using code words?" the Matron asks Sara, who ignores her.

"— then the only way anyone can force a ghost to _give_ power is by mediums. Or necromancy, I guess."

"Yeah," Mick says. He's frowning, too. 

"The Time Masters are attempting _necromancy_?"

"Medium-style necromancy, if I had to guess," Mick says. "Explains what they'd want with Savage – he's probably the oldest medium alive. Knows all the tricks."

"Necromancy," the Matron says. "You think the Time Masters – with _my children_? Their former selves, or at least some of them?"

"Your children are the cover," Jax says. "We found these markers all over the forest, and less so near the house. And when they activated, they knocked out all the kids."

"We suspect they may have sent an alarm to the Vanishing Point as well," Stein says. 

"Untie me," the Matron demands.

"Uh, how about _no_?" Kendra says. 

"Untie me, and I'll answer their call and tell them nothing is the matter," the Matron says impatiently. "It will buy more time to figure out what is going on."

"And if you betray us?" Sara asks.

"Then they will come one way or the other."

"Why are you suddenly willing to help?" Len asks, suspicious. 

"Because," the Matron says, her lips pressed together, "I was always informed that there was no way to set up an alarm from here, no matter the threat to the children, because the frequency was unavailable. I always assumed that meant it could not be accessed, not – not that it was _already in use_. I don’t want to believe that they care more about this – this _angel_ or whatever it is than the well-being of my children, but…well. I suppose we’ll see."

They all look at each other.

"Fine," Sara says, and unties her. "If you sell us out, I'll make sure you stay alive to see what happens when the Time Masters attack this place with all its sleeping kids."

"Would they do that?" Kendra asks. "If these are themselves –"

"I doubt this is the only place they have like this," Sara says. "Don't put all your eggs in one basket, that sort of thing. They might be willing to risk damage to some of their younger selves if they think the Vanishing Point is important enough."

"They do," the Matron says. "It's not just a base for them. It has religious importance."

"Great," Kendra says. "Religion. That's not going to be a problem, I'm sure."

An alarm rings. One of the picture frames flickers into a call waiting symbol.

The Matron pats her hair into place and goes to answer it. The face of a middle-aged man in what look like monk robes appears; he looks like the one that attacked Rip in the forest with the Hunters, Rip's old mentor. "Why hello, Andrew!" she says. "What brings you here?"

"Hello, Matron," the Time Master says. "And please. It's Druce."

"Certainly, Andrew. Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing – do you happen to have guests?"

"No," the Matron says. "Though we did have some that just departed – rather abruptly, I'd say – and the children here have fallen asleep rather suddenly. Would you like to come look at them? I'm a little concerned –"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Matron," the Time Master says. "Not there anymore, you're certain?"

"Now, Andrew, _really_ ," the Matron says admonishingly.

"Yes, of course," the Time Master replies absently, clearly already thinking of other things. "No matter, then – perhaps we'll talk more later, Matron; I'm afraid I have some sensitive matters to attend to..."

The screen cuts off.

The Matron's face twists a little. "Well," she says, then shakes her head, her lips pressed together tightly. "That's that, I suppose."

"Not quite," Len says. "We still need the key to restart time here. Do you know how to do that?"

"They haven't kept everything from me," she says briskly. "You should pack up and be ready to go. Once I deactivate the shields, the alarms will undoubtedly go off."

Franz puts a hand on her shoulder and shoots Len a longing look.

Len pushes a bit of life towards him, just enough for an apparition – audiovisual spectrum, but no poltergeist powers. He's done trusting in the good intentions of, well, _anyone_ in this place, ghost or not. 

It's harder than it usually is for something so minor. Mick's not wrong about this place draining power. 

The Matron jumps when the hand on her shoulder becomes visible. She turns, mouth pressed together, then stops.

Absolutely stops. 

The Matron, who has mastered herself through every situation so far, resisting or concerned or simply steadfast, just _stops_ , her eyes wide, her mouth agape, her hands dropped out of their fists. 

"Franz?" she whispers.

"You're doing the right thing," he says. 

"It _killed_ you," she says.

"No, Mary," he says. "It didn't. I got tired of seeing it there in the forest beyond the garden, always at the corner of my eye, something not so much seen as felt. And I tried to let it go."

"It's true, then?" she asks, her voice breaking a little. "You died –"

"I died unbowed and unafraid," Franz tells her. "I stayed to watch over you, in hope that one day you would feel the same."

She swipes at her eyes. "How do I know this isn't a trick?" she asks, glancing over at Len.

Len considers pointing out that he would still have to get his information from somewhere, but decides against it. Snark wouldn't help right now. Privacy, on the other hand...

He turns away from them to let Franz convey whatever he feels he needs to in order to convince her of the truth. "Jax – can we fly?"

"Yeah, Waverider's okay," Jax says. "Did most of the repairs Rip wanted; even fixed some of the new stuff. We haven't managed to do some of the fancier stuff he'd been hoping for, but –"

"We don't need fancy," Sara says. "We need _out_."

A few minutes into their conversation, the Matron marches over.

"How would you like to do this?" she asks, her eyes steely again. This time, though, the anger's not directed at the invaders, but at the people who brought her children into contact with so terrible a danger - and on purpose, no less. 

Loyalty first to the children, it seems, really is her watchword. 

Who'd have thought?

"I'll stay," Mick says, glancing at Len, who nods. It's the only thing that makes sense. "You turn it off, I confirm it."

"You'll need to fly out of here virtually immediately after the key turns and the freezing of time goes," she says. "I've always been warned against doing it, but I suspect the consequences have been somewhat oversold. But if there was an alarm simply for contacting your angel, then there will most certainly be one for the key. The Time Masters will come in force."

"We'll be ready to fly," Kendra says. "Sara, do you think..?"

"I can manage with Gideon's help," Sara says. "I've been watching Rip."

"Speaking of..." Kendra says, looking at the Matron.

"The effect will wear off as soon as you're in the timestream," the Matron says. "Your AI should be able to confirm when the drugs are out of their systems."

"Good," Kendra says, turning to go carry Ray back to the ship. Sara goes with her to help drag Rip along. 

"Good luck," Len tells the Matron, and also Franz, who's looking increasingly peaceful. He's seen what he hoped to see – Mick wasn't wrong about his slow degradation as a ghost, but if the Matron lowers the shields now, he'll be able to pass on instead of whatever else is going on.

"Are you sure your friend will be able to make it to your ship in time?" the Matron asks Len, nodding at Mick. 

Len hates it when people talk over Mick's head. They're usually assuming that he's a dumb thug with nothing to contribute and a blind loyalty to Len's orders, no matter what, and that's just such utter crap. 

"I only mention it because they will attempt to capture any one of you that they can," she continues. "And if you thought the drugs I used were problematic, my dear, you will be even more put out at the way they, ah, _process_ their captives."

"Torture," Len translates. "And brainwashing."

She nods. "Time Pirates often become bounty hunters, once they've been captured. Given time – and the Time Masters have all of _that_ they could possibly need."

No wonder the Stormtroopers Three didn't have ghosts. They were relieved to be free at last. 

Disgusting.

"Your system of justifications to explain to yourself how you work for people that do that must be amazing," Len says dryly and entirely without sympathy. Why is he not surprised that at the end of the day, protestations of loyalty aside, she's little more than a collaborator? Albeit one finally pushed too far. "Mick will be fine."

They return to the ship.

"You sure we can take off?" Sara asks, glancing at Len. "With Mick..?"

"He's a _ghost_ ," Len reminds her. "He can float and go through walls. He'll catch up."

She nods and takes off. "Gideon," she says. "Prep for jump."

"Yes, Miss Lance," Gideon says, then, after a moment, adds, "We are now ready."

They wait.

They don't have to wait long.

_Something_ changes in the place, a feeling almost like something ripples through the air. The whole building flickers – suddenly, for just a moment, the entire building is in even better shape then before, then only decent, then bad, then failing and falling to pieces, and then suddenly it's good again – and the grounds cycle abruptly through the seasons, a flash of each, snow heavy on the ground a heartbeat before the spring and summer race by. 

That's not what Len's waiting for.

And then it happens. 

Some great presence, indefinable, moves over them in a burst of light that is filled with joy, singing a song of praise in the simplest of numbers, the light filling their eyes and ears, the faintest feeling of a brush of feathers on their faces, before it fades. 

Passes on.

Everyone's eyes are wet.

"Sara," Len says, forcing the words out. "Now."

She nods and reaches for the controls.

As she does, Len reaches out and calls, with all the force of his life, all his power, "Mick!"

And Mick is there beside him.

They make the jump into the time stream moments before the first of the Time Masters' ships arrive.

"Take us somewhere we can hide," Kendra says, and unbuckles herself. "I'm going to check on Ray and Rip."

Len reaches out to Mick and catches his arm, squeezing lightly. He doesn't know what he would've done if Mick hadn't been able to come so fast.

Luckily, he doesn't need to wonder.

Mick smiles at him.

Len smiles back and goes after Kendra to check on their teammates in med bay. Sara follows a second later, setting the piloting on auto and leaving Jax to keep an eye on it. 

They're just blinking awake, green lights signaling full health above their heads.

"Oh, _Ray_ ," Kendra says tearfully, and throws herself at him. The shade at her feet hums contentedly. 

Rip is frowning. "Mr. Snart, Miss Lance," he says, looking at them. "Have I – missed something?"

Len looks at Sara. Sara looks at Len.

“Yeah, not it,” Len says, and turns on his heel.

“Coward!” Sara shouts at his retreating back.

But she sounds amused.


	45. 44

"So we need to do something about the Time Masters' alliance with Savage," Sara says, slouching down in her chair. "That's the conclusion, right? If our guess about them working together is right, the closer we get to actually getting Savage, the more vicious the Time Masters are going to get trying to stop us, and we won't be able to reach our goal if we don't break them up first."

"Divide and conquer," Stein says, nodding. 

"Yeah, exactly," Sara says. "Somehow, anyway. First things first, though, we need to figure out how they've been interfering with our mission. Luckily, we have an expert in all things Time Master...Rip?"

Rip's sitting in his chair off to the side, subdued. He's been like that ever since they explained the whole circumstances of what happened at the Refuge, as well as their deductions and what the Matron had confirmed and all of that. Well, actually, first he'd started off denying it all pretty strongly - first claiming that they had just misinterpreted things the Matron had said or done and escalating up to full on accusations that they were lying – but the unanimous agreement of all the Legends and, more importantly, Gideon, had forced him to accept that either they'd all conspired against him for no reason (implausible) or that much of what he had believed to be his life up until that point was wrong.

Len has some sympathy. After all, Rip has just discovered that his belief in being part of an elite unit selected to save the timeline was actually all a lie and he's being moved around like a pawn by individuals who don't care about him as a person. It's really got to suck to have something like that happen. Len can't possibly imagine what it would be like, say, if Rip himself had done something like that to them and expected immediate forgiveness...

Okay, turns out Len's still a bit bitter about being called a liar the first four times they tried to explain what happened. Rip hadn't exactly been polite about it. But all bitterness aside, Len really is sympathetic to Rip's plight, at least about Rip's discovery of the Matron's participation in the Time Masters' actions. Finding out she hadn't known everything they had been up to, and that she really did care about her children, had helped ease the revelation a little, but not much.

Len gets the whole bad parents thing. Facing up to the fact that they really are just plain old bad is a hard process, and no doubt harder for Rip, who'd thought the Matron was really one of the good ones, than it had been for Len, who'd already had plenty of reasons to suspect there might be nothing decent in his dad.

The revelation that Rip's still-mostly-idolized employers had apparently conspired to murder his wife and child and prevent him from rescuing them in order to manipulate Savage's timeline in a way that Savage wouldn't suspect, though...

After they'd finally convinced him of the truth of what they were saying, Rip told them stories about the Time Masters' strict rules about relationships (Ray had compared it to the way the Jedi Order was fashioned in the prequels in a moment of somewhat Ray-typical insight and insensitivity, but luckily Rip hadn't noticed) and how his wife, Miranda, had given up her career in order to preserve his when their relationship had been discovered. How they married in secret anyway. How they had Jonas together –

How he found their dead bodies, and how he failed to rescue them again and again.

"I don't know how they do it," Rip said then, and he says it again now, sounding tired and a little defeated. "When I tried to rescue Miranda and Jonas, they didn't overtly interfere in any way; I would have noticed that. It was just the circumstances going south - or so I thought. I admit, it seemed implausible that I had such bad luck, but I couldn't figure out what else it could be. Every time I tried to compensate for what had come before, it was something different that caused their death. I thought it was just the timeline wanting to happen that changed the circumstances -"

"That just means they've figured out a way to control the circumstances," Len says.

"That has to be impossible," Kendra says. "Doesn't it? I mean, you can't control _everything_. The world, the real world, isn't like some – I don't know – some sort of demented game of Sim City."

"Something like a clash between the Sims and Civilizations, I think," Ray says, squeezing her hand. "And it seems extremely implausible to me, too, but on the other hand, you know, any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic..."

"Glad you know your Clarke," Len drawls. "Doesn't change the fact that - putting aside the exact mechanism involved - that however you look at it, the conclusion is that we're being played."

Honestly, the only thing that could be worse than going on this entire stupid trip would be someone having _tricked_ him into going on this stupid trip. 

Of course, that gave rise to uneasy questions about how much influence the Time Masters had over the dreams of ghosts, and the time puppies, because that's what _really_ brought him and Mick along, and kept them from leaving...

Len prefers not to think too closely on that. There's a certain amount of power that he's willing to ascribe to his enemies, enough to make attacking them a realistic challenge, and then there's ascribing them _too_ much power, which does nothing but diminish morale.

Len prefers, though not by much, to think that whoever is behind the time puppies, maybe the angel's sister – Barry's Speed Force? Is that even possible? – is getting him and Mick involved for its own agenda and its own purposes, whatever that agenda or purposes may be. Okay, no, Len doesn't really prefer that at all – he _hates_ the thought of being manipulated – but at least that makes it a later problem.

Len also would love to know which angel, if any, in theology correlates to the Speed Force, because _someone_ must have seen the connection and named it. He doesn't know who or how, but he's sure of it. 

Sadly, those entertaining thoughts aren't helpful in regards to their current task, which is to figure out a way to stop the Time Masters and Savage. Ideally, as Sara says, by dividing and turning them against each other, then confronting each in turn. 

Of course, they had no idea how to even begin to do _that_...

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way," Mick says. 

Everyone looks at him.

"Focusing on the Time Masters ain't getting us anywhere," Mick says.

Everyone looks at him.

“Our only source of intel on them is Rip, right? And he don’t know anything the Time Masters didn’t want him to know,” Mick clarifies. “So let’s focus in on the other half of the equation.”

“Savage?” Kendra asks dubiously. “Don’t we already know everything we need to about him?”

“There’s one thing we don’t,” Mick says. “Why the Time Masters _care_ about him.”

Rip straightens up from his depressed slump. He's still frowning, but he looks interested again.

“Didn’t we find out that it was something, uh, necromantic?” Sara asks. “Or mediums, since Leonard keeps claiming they're different? And that it was something with the Refuge?”

“We did,” Len says, nodding. “But we didn’t find out what exactly they were up to about it. On one hand, yeah, based on the whole immortality business, Savages is probably the oldest medium and all that, but so what? These Time Bastards -"

"I like that," Mick murmurs with a smirk.

"- they've got all of time to work on any project they got going on. Why do they need Savage?”

"And more importantly," Stein says thoughtfully, "if we are being used to make changes in his timeline via our actions so far, what changes were made? Perhaps if we figured out _what_ changes were being made, we could figure out _why_ they were being made."

"Gideon?" Rip asks. "I know you have only limited access to Savage's timeline, but if you could analyze it based on your existing knowledge from before and after our missions..."

"I'm sorry, Captain," she replies apologetically. "I cannot detect any changes to Savage's timeline. However, that may be because my information banks are out of date."

"Just like they were when we ran into the Acheron?" Kendra asks, crossing her arms. "Rip, I hate to bring up the possibility, but is there any chance that Gideon might have been compromised?"

"I most certainly have not, Ms. Saunders," Gideon says sharply. Len hadn't even known Gideon _did_ sharply.

"It might just be a matter of them adjusting what information she's been getting and knowing in advance how she'll analyze it," Ray says with a frown. "You know what they say in comp sci: garbage in, garbage out – uh, no offense, Gideon."

"None taken, Mr. Palmer," Gideon says, voice back to her smooth, level tones. "In fact, I'm afraid you might be right. The Time Masters have access to their own AIs, many of which have significantly more processing power than I do at the moment, and it's not necessarily impossible for them to analyze our existing actions and personalities and use those to calculate a projection of our most likely route – unless we travel as we did just now, that is."

"What," Sara says, smiling. "You don't like the 'spin the globe, pick a number' approach to time travel?"

"It does have the benefit of randomness," Gideon concedes. "I'm still unsure of the benefit of touching down in 1920s New Zealand."

"We're hoping it's random enough to give us some extra time before the Time Masters spot us again," Jax explains. "Give us some time to plan before we have to start fighting them again."

"Not that we're having much luck with that," Len grumbles. "Either the fighting _or_ the planning."

"Hey, thief," Sara shoots back at him with a faint smirk. "Aren't you supposed to be the plan guy? Go on, give us a plan."

"Yeah," Len says, rolling his eyes at her. "I'm great at plans – _after_ we've picked a target and I have a chance to case the place."

"The information we require would be in only one place," Rip says, drawing everyone's attention. He's pale. "My former place of employ: the Vanishing Point."

"The place where the power drain from the Refuge was going to uphold," Mick says thoughtfully. 

"A place anchored by trapped ghosts," Len says. He doesn't like the sound of that at all, but Rip's not wrong. 

"So we go there –" Sara starts.

"We can't go there!" Rip exclaims. 

"Why not?" Jax asks. "Seems like our only option right now."

"Pursuing Savage any further is just playing into their hands," Kendra says. She glances at the shade – at Carter, Len has to remind himself; it's strange to him that he's now partially visible thanks to Len's power but still refuses to speak, but Len assumes that has something to do with him gathering power for his next incarnation, which isn't really something most ghosts have to be concerned about – and tightens her grip on Ray's hand. "I want him dead as much as you, but we need to be one step ahead of them this time. We came so close last time; I don't think they'll be playing it easy."

"I'm with Kendra," Sara agrees.

"You don't understand," Rip says. "The Vanishing Point isn't just a place or a time; it's a place _outside_ of time and –"

"In the same manner as the Refuge," Stein says. "With a fixed day and everything; we know that."

"No, no," Rip says. "Let me finish. The difficulty in getting there isn’t just that it’s out of time, though that's part of it. Because it's outside of time, there is only one 'time' period which you can approach it. However, that isn't the only problem: it’s also difficult to approach because it’s a space station."

"A space station?" Ray says, perking up. Stein's face is doing something similar. “Really?”

"Even the Refuge permits only a few methods of approach when you approach it via the timeline, but at least there are multiple places you could fly in and land," Rip says. "The method we took to enter – the path and platform near the entrance that the Matron uses to go on short trips – is less heavily guarded than the others. But the Vanishing Point – there's no forest, no garden, nothing to hide in. It hovers in an empty part of space."

"Like the Acheron was?" Len asks, surreptitiously rubbing his ears at the memory.

"Not quite. It's a region of space removed from the timeline," Rip says. "It's utterly inaccessible unless you know where it is – and even if you do, you'll be spotted immediately. There is only one time and, more importantly, only one method of approach, and that path makes anyone coming down that way instantaneously obvious. This is the Time Masters' _fortress_. It's as well defended as they can manage it. Short of going through the front door and ringing the doorbell, I can't imagine any way for us to even approach the place, much less do so surreptitiously."

"There's gotta be another way in," Jax says, crossing his arms and scowling.

"There's always another way in," Len says. As a thief, this is his most dearly held principle – even though he's got to admit that space stations frozen in time is definitely a bit above his paygrade. He wishes he could refer it to someone with more knowledge. 

Unfortunately, this is the team they have. 

The team Rip selected.

"Kendra obviously had to be on your team," Len says slowly, thinking that last thought through to its logical conclusion. "But she could've been from any era. How'd you pick the rest of us?"

"You're highly skilled," Rip says, "and your timeline effect would be negligible –"

"According to who?" Len asks. "Gideon's analysis? Garbage in, garbage out, Rip."

Rip falls silent for a long moment. "I take your point," he says. "I can't say for sure that the analysis wasn't affected."

"Captain Hunter, you selected the individuals," Gideon points out. "Not me."

"The phrase unfortunately applies to humans as well as computers," Stein says. "If Captain Hunter was given information designed to make him think of selecting us, that selection could be suspect."

"Supposing ain't helping," Mick says. "Let's say all the paranoia's true and that they picked us, and led us around by the nose. Let’s go back to the Professor’s question – what changes did we make? And why’d the Time Masters care that we made ‘em?"

“If Gideon can’t answer –” Rip starts.

“We’ve still got brains, Rip,” Len says. “We can use ‘em instead of relying on Gideon all the time. No offense meant, Gideon.”

“None taken,” Gideon replies. “I’m very concerned by the suggestion that my information was compromised. I'll be running several diagnostics on myself immediately.”

"Okay. So while Gideon's doing that, we should be thinking. What impact _did_ we have?" Jax asks, putting his head on his hands. “I mean – he saw us during multiple time periods, looking the same, right? So he probably put two and two together and figured out we were getting around because of time travel, right? That’s always what happens in sci-fi shows, someone from the past putting together the time travel thing.”

Rip makes a face. “In conjunction with my own efforts to kill him in his original lifetime, yes, I think it’s fairly safe to assume that Savage has figured that much out.”

“How does that help him, though?” Sara asks. 

“Maybe he starts focusing his research on time travel?” Stein suggests. 

“What do you mean?” Rip asks. “He wouldn’t have the capability to develop time travel on his own, even given multiple human lifetimes – the underlying technological developments just aren’t there, and Savage isn’t known for being particularly fond of new technology even in the best of times. He’s a warlord, not a scientist, despite his occasional forays into sponsoring it as he did in Russia.”

“Besides, if he’s working with the Time Masters, he can use theirs, right?” Jax points out.

“Not if they’re not giving him access to time travel,” Stein counters. “Not all alliances share their resources in full.”

“He came up with that ghost trap,” Len says slowly. “In Russia.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jax says. “You said it wasn’t a trap for Firestorm, it was for you.”

“How’s that work?” Sara asks.

“Mick was trapped in the lab, and then in the gulag, because there was a ghost trap,” Len explains. “He'd figured out a way to use electricity as some sort of medium circle and designed it to trap ghosts. That whole containment unit? It was filled with ghosts, desperately trying to get out.”

“And you didn’t see fit to mention this?” Rip exclaims.

“I mentioned it to Jax,” Len says.

“I told Grey!” 

“And I assumed everyone else already knew,” Stein says with a shrug. 

“What’s that got to do with anything, though?” Ray asks. He doesn't seem particularly put off by the failure in communication, but then, he's always been a pretty forward-facing sort of guy. Len appreciates that practicality. 

“He developed it because he wanted to trap me,” Len explains. “That's my theory, anyway. Or maybe seeing me gave him the idea, I'm not sure; maybe he wanted to do _something_ with them, and we interrupted before he had a chance to figure out exactly what.”

“What makes you think that’s related?” Kendra asks.

“Because of the ghost that got stuck in the Refuge,” Sara says, nodding. “No, no, I get it. They’re using us to taunt Savage with time travel and since Savage is a necromancer –”

“Medium,” Len corrects. 

Sara shoots him a mildly exasperated look. “Necromancer, medium, whatever. They start nudging him into paying attention to ghosts and stuff - I mean, look at us. I'm undead, Len's whatever-he-calls-himself, Mick's a ghost...Stein, Ray, you guys were both presumed dead and survived through unusual means."

Everyone's nodding.

"So think about it," Sara continues, warming to her topic. "Savage sees us. Savage gets interested not just in the time travel, but in what we are - maybe he assumes that it's related somehow, that the relationship to the dead or whatever is _how_ we're doing the time travel. Then he starts focusing on his development of trapping ghosts and stuff, which is what the Time Masters did in the Refuge. Maybe even using the techniques he developed.”

“The chain of causality involved –” Stein starts, then stops. “I’m not even going to go into that. Suffice to say that I think that implausible.”

“Maybe they’re trying to _improve_ on what they did, then,” Sara says impatiently. “Maybe Savage has got some special Kendra-and-Carter related voodoo, maybe they want to be immortal –”

“Time Masters don’t believe in immortality,” Rip objects.

“Do you know that for sure?” Kendra asks him. 

Rip makes a face, and shakes his head. "It's become very clear to me that I know very little about my employers," he says grimly.

“Savage eats spirits,” Len offers. “First thing I saw. He pulled himself out of his body and ate Carter.”

Kendra twitches. Ray also looks horrified, instinctively reaching out to pat the silent shade of Carter on the arm. His hand goes through him, of course, but Carter looks mildly pleased at the gesture. 

“So, maybe something to do with that, maybe?” Jax asks, though he sounds dubious. 

“Either way, it doesn’t matter,” Mick says. “The answers are gonna be in the Vanishing Point, and we don’t have any way to get there.”

An alarm goes off.

“Gideon, what’s going on?” Rip asks, rising to his feet.

“A time ship is approaching,” Gideon reports.

“Crap,” Jax says. “They found us!”

"Already?!" Kendra exclaims.

“We need to get out of here,” Ray agrees.

“I’ve identified the ship,” Gideon says. She sounds almost puzzled. “It’s the Hunters.”

Everyone pauses.

“How can that be?” Stein asks. “We defeated them already.”

“We definitely did,” Sara says. “…didn’t we?”

“We did,” Rip confirms. “They might be timeline fragments – and yet, that seems unusual. How could they have located us here?”

“They’re reaching out via hailing frequencies,” Gideon says. “Shall I put them on screen?”

“Might as well,” Len says. If they have to run or fight, they might as well see who they’re dealing with first. 

The face that appears on the screen, while familiar, is _not_ the Hunters.

" _Svetlana_?!" Sara exclaims. 

Len, who had been opening his mouth to say the same, looks at Sara suspiciously, then at a particularly perky-looking Sveltana. 

"Hello, _golubchik_ ," she says, looking at Sara fondly, her appearance unchanged – black hair, dark eyes, heavy coat, rifle at hand. She nods at Len. " _Grazhdanin_ Snart."

"When did you two even have _time_ to reach the ‘my little dove’ level?" Len wants to know. As far as he knew, they hadn’t even spent a full _hour_ together. 

Judging by their smirks, more than an hour was clearly not required. 

Mick just offers Sara his fist, which she obligingly bumps with her own. 

"You're the young woman Mr. Snart had spy on the Hunters," Rip says, frowning. "Aren't you?"

"I am, yes," she says. 

"Weren't you supposed to go home?" Stein asks, though his stern tone is undercut by the way his lips keep twitching in amusement.

"Oops," Svetlana says. She doesn't bother trying to make it convincing. 

"Did you even analyze the potential timeline impact of removing her from the timeline?" Rip demands. "Not to mention what would happen if the Time Masters found her in their own time ship!"

"They cannot find me," Svetlana says dismissively. "And my impact has already been made."

"You can't know that!" Rip exclaims.

"Rip," Jax says.

Rip glances at him, then frowns at Jax's amused face. "What?"

"She's a ghost," Jax says wryly. "I'm pretty sure they don't have timeline impacts, not unless the boss is ordering them around."

"Ghost?" Sara says blankly.

"I don't order, I ask," Len says mutinously. Still not a necromancer, damnit. At least 99.9% of the time.

"Of course, _Grazhdanin_ ," Svetlana says. She sounds a lot like Mick at his most irritating – very 'indulge the child with his whims'. "But see – we are here to help without your asking!"

"Oh, yeah, much better," Mick says with a smirk.

Len kicks him in the ankle.

"Wait, back up. _Ghost_?" Sara says.

"Forget that," Len says. "More important: _we_ are here to help? Who's we?" 

"I picked up some stragglers," she says. “Primarily of my own kind, do not be concerned.”

"You've been developing your own time-traveling team?" Len asks, somewhere between amused and horrified. "Of _ghosts_? _Why_? Time travel is _awful_."

Rip shoots Len an annoyed look. Apparently that’s not the part he was supposed to be upset by. 

To quote Svetlana: oops. 

"It's more complicated than that," Svetlana sniffs. "Only those of us who are very strong can come into the ship. So the team remains small." She smiles suddenly, all teeth and happiness. "You will like Parvati, I think, Sara; she is your type."

"Am I being propositioned for a ghost threesome?" Sara asks the air.

"Yes," Kendra says dryly. "You definitely are."

Sara looks thoughtful. "Well, I do have a 'no reasonable threesome offer declined' policy..."

"Maybe later," Len says, smothering a laugh. "We got bigger fish to fry."

"We most certainly do," Rip says, somehow managing to sound very disappointed in everyone. "We don't have time for this – frivolity."

"I told y'all he'd say that," a voice drawls from Svetlana's ship. Another familiar face appears.

"Jonah?" Rip asks, immediately distracted. "What are you – are you _dead_?!"

"Nah," Jonah says. "Svet here just pulled me out of a tight spot, so I caught a ride."

"Russian names do not work like that," Svetlana says patiently, clearly not for the first time. "Svetlana. Sveta, perhaps. Not Svet."

"But – your absence from the timeline –" Rip looks distressed.

"Relax," Jonah says. "I'm gonna head back after this jaunt anyway. Weren't even planning on staying this long, if it weren't for the dead things."

"The dead things?" Mick asks, raising his eyebrows. "If you're talking about the ghosts, we prefer 'living challenged'."

"That's still never gonna catch on," Len warns him.

"I don't know," Svetlana says. "I like it. Catchy."

" _No,_ " Len emphasizes. "I will go necromancer just to make you not say that anymore."

Jonah cackles. "Oh, now you've done it," he says smugly. "She ain't never gonna drop it now – oh, stop gaping already, Rip,” he adds, nodding Rip – who is, in fact, gaping. “I told you that it just weren't the right time for me to go, last time, and I meant it. It wasn't anything about you."

"You asked him to go with you?" Kendra asks, smiling.

"It was some time back – I thought he might be useful –" Rip tries to say, but no one's having any of it, laughing, and anyway the way he's flushing and glancing covertly at Jonah says more than any denial would. 

"I have a question," Ray says, interrupting everyone’s teasing of Rip. He's been oddly quiet, clearly thinking of something else.

"Yeah?" Sara asks, finally tearing her eyes away from Svetlana and the attractive Indian woman who just entered the screen, who Len assumes is Parvarti and who he can also tell just on sight is a particularly nasty man-killing ghost. He's pretty sure that wouldn't actually deter Sara, though.

"Yeah," Ray says. "Like – how did you guys manage to find us? In _New Zealand_?"

"That's actually a good question," Stein says. "After all, before we spun the globe in Rip's office, even _we_ didn't even know we were going to come here – "

"Yeah, good point," Jax says. "And if you guys can use _your_ ship to track us, the Time Masters _definitely_ can."

"Nah, we didn't use the ship," Jonah says.

"You didn't?" Rip asks, frowning. "Finding us was an accident? The chances of that are –"

"– infinitesimally small," Stein finishes. "Particularly if you have all of time and space to consider."

"No, no," Svetlana says. "No accident. We came here to help you, as I said."

"How'd you know where we were, then?" Len asks.

"The dead things," Jonah says. 

Svetlana nods.

"What dead things?" Len asks, since it’s pretty clear they’re not talking about ghosts. Normally, he'd be inclined to guess, but after the last few months, he doesn't really trust himself. Or the universe, for that matter. It could be _anything_.

"The unearthly beings," Svetlana says. "The decaying echoes. You know them."

Len can think of _too many_ things that fit that description, actually...

"Wait," Mick says. "You talking about the _time puppies_?"

"They're many things, my friend," Jonah says, wrinkling his nose. "But they sure as hell ain't puppies."

"Wraiths," Len says. "Decaying, zombie-like – uh, corpse-like, you wouldn't know about zombies yet – but, like, decaying corpses that fly and wail and chase speedsters?"

"Don't know about the speedster thing," Jonah says. "But that sounds about right."

"I _knew_ I counted fewer on the ship after the whole Refuge business," Mick mutters.

Len kicks his ankle again. They hadn't shared that little factoid with the rest of the crew yet. 

"They did chase the lightning once," Svetlana says thoughtfully, just in time to distract everyone. "Parvati said she thought it looked like a man. She has a good eye for such things."

"That'd be a speedster," Len confirms. "But – why in the world would the time wraiths come to you? Or send you to help us?"

"They told us you were going to save all of time," Svetlana says. "And that we were to help."

"Obviously," Jonah adds.

"Right," Rip says weakly. "Obviously."

"Just what we wanted," Kendra mutters. " _More_ pressure."

Ray squeezes her hand. Carter squeezes the other. 

They seem notably more comfortable than they had earlier. Len didn't notice that happening but, still, good for them.

"On the bright side – " Len starts.

"There's a _bright_ side?" Sara says.

"Oh, definitely," Len says. "Now that they're here, I have a plan."

“Really?” Sara says. “Well, that _is_ something. Depending on what the plan is, of course.”

“Well, don’t leave us in suspense, boss,” Jax says. “What _is_ the plan?”

Len sketches it out for them.

They consider it silently for a few minutes.

Ray’s the first one to speak.

“Wow,” he says.

Mick smirks.

"I _really_ hate that plan," Ray continues.

Mick smirks harder.

“He’s not wrong,” Kendra says. “That’s an _awful_ plan.”

“Of course it is,” Len says, leaning back with a smirk, comfortable in his knowledge that his plan is currently the _only_ plan. “But hey – you’re free to think of something better.”

Everyone looks at each other.

And then they _really_ all start in with the complaints.


	46. 45

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Mick says mildly as they rearrange themselves and their gear according to Len's plan, which was met with universal dislike but also, more importantly, universal 'well we don't have anything else' resignation, which is good enough for Len. 

Len considers ignoring him, but a quick glance at Mick's face convinces him that it would be worse than useless to try to avoid this conversation.

Maybe he could still play dumb...

"Don't even think about it," Mick warns.

Len sighs. There are times when he likes having someone who knows him as well as Mick does, and then there are times, like now, when he really wishes that at least a _few_ of his defense mechanisms still worked against him.

" _Boss_."

Len gives up and turns to look at Mick. "Okay. If you've noticed, then what exactly do you want me to say?"

"Well, ideally," Mick says, crossing his arms, "you'd tell me that you actually have some weird side plan that you haven't told anyone about. Then you'd tell me that in that weird side plan, there's a really good reason that you need me here. That way, I know that there's an actual reason I'm on _this_ ship and not on the ship with the _rest_ of the ghosts. But for some funny reason I'm thinking that ain't the case."

No, but now Len's seriously regretting not thinking of something that could've maybe fit into that set of criteria. 

He's creative. He could've come up with something. 

"Len, I'm a ghost," Mick says.

"Really? Hadn't noticed," Len says dryly. 

Mick rolls his eyes at him. "Your entire plan kinda hinges on the fact that the Time Masters seem to be pretty shitty mediums, even though they keep trying to do medium-like stuff, and that that's why they're after getting Savage all set up to help them."

"It is my plan," Len grumbles. "I know that already."

"My _point_ is, the plan centers around your hope that they won't notice ghosts infiltrating their Vanishing Point as long as we're trying to be quiet," Mick says. "I'm a ghost. By all rights, I should be on the ghost team."

"Maybe it's just that you're not particularly quiet?"

Mick gives Len a disdainful look. "I've always been quiet enough before. Which leads me to think that the reason I'm here on this ship and not with the other ghosts on the Waverider has more to do with _who_ I am."

"Could be I thought we had enough ghostly firepower on the Waverider already," Len suggests. 

It's not even a bad suggestion and has the virtue of being very nearly true – there's no single ghost as strong as Mick, not that Len's ever met, but Svetlana's little crew isn't any too shabby on the firepower front. Svetlana wasn't wrong that only the strongest ghosts could get past the ghost-repelling effects of the time-stream. 

Parvati is, as he suspected, a man-killer; she slaughtered dozens of British servicemen after her entirely preventable death in the Bengal famines. Of the remaining three crew members, Jack and Ahmed were once sailors on a ship of many nations, date uncertain, and best friends who promised they'd introduce each other to their sweethearts merely hours before their ship went down; they started as unquiet dead, selfishly stealing what they could, but Svetlana had put an end to that. The last crew member was Miko, a Japanese schoolgirl that was murdered a week before the bombing of Hiroshima. All her chances at seeing justice done had evaporated with the rest of the city, and she nursed a grudge harder and harder each year that her luckier countrymen came to honor what they did not know to be the shrine of her death. And, of course, there was Svetlana herself, a Night Witch, once a pilot and a loyal soldier, and a woman who had died, of all things, of a simple illness. 

Deaths by natural causes rarely cause ghosts with the regret and rage needed to create a poltergeist or manifestation of Sveltana's strength, but Svetlana had been given a taste of honor and freedom during the war, and the rage that swelled, unspoken, in her heart when she returned home to find her victories covered over and herself dismissed to the role of a housewife and mother had been enough. Her children, seeing that the end was near, had secretly helped her into her soldier's clothing and given her her old rifle, so that she could die happy, and she died at the very moment that her husband stormed in to rip them off of her as 'disgraceful' – just soon enough for her to catch a glimpse of his actions and thus ignite all her rage from kindling into a flame.

Len likes Svetlana.

"Uh-huh," Mick says. He doesn't sound convinced.

"What do you want me to say?" Len asks, exasperated. "That you're different from the other ghosts? That I value you more? You're my _partner_. Of course I do."

"That wasn't what I was getting at," Mick says gruffly, though he pinks up a bit in pleasure. "I'm saying that you're sidelining me 'cause you're afraid I'll get hurt."

"I'm not sidelining you," Len objects, because that's _definitely_ not true. "I want you on my team. That's different."

"Lenny."

Oh, boy. They’ve reached the ‘Lenny’ stage. 

"And yeah, okay, _fine_. Yes, I'm afraid you'll get hurt," Len says. "My whole life, you've been invulnerable, and now it's like every time I look around something new has jumped out of the woodwork to hurt you. I don't like it."

"I've been invulnerable because I'm dead," Mick points out. "You're not supposed to rely on that. You know that."

"You always promised me that we'd pass on together," Len says stubbornly. He knows Mick's right, but it's far too late for him not to care, too late for him not to feel what he feels. "I'm just doing my best to hold you to that." He shakes his head. "Not that I've got much longer myself, anyway."

"Len – "

"That ain't what's bugging me," Len says hastily. He doesn't want Mick getting the impression that this is about some fear of death because it really isn't what’s at issue right now, even though he can never escape hearing that ticking clock that's slowly counting down for him. "I don't want you thinking that. It ain't. But it's there, you know, the fact of it, and, well – to be honest, I always figured on me going first, or us going together, y'know? I don't – I don't really like who I am when you're not around."

It's not a fear of death, no. Just of loneliness. 

"You're not gonna turn into that necromancer just because something happens to me," Mick says, insightful as always. Not entirely right, in this instance – Len has _never_ liked who he is without Mick to stabilize him – but it's not that Mick hasn't accurately pinpointed at least some of the issue.

"I think I might," Len says grimly, thinking of 2046. The grief, the rage, the _loss_ …the _regret_ …the thought of turning into _that_ because he lost Mick.... 

"Nah, you –"

"Mick," Len interrupts, and there must be something about his voice because Mick actually stops and looks at him. "I might, and I ain't even sure I'd regret it, either. You're – you're important to me."

God, he's such an asshole. Even now, he has trouble choking up the right words. He's said them before, under moments of great stress, but sometimes he trips over them. Sometimes, when he's so tightly wound as he is now, so worried, so frozen by his own fear, he can't say what he needs to say.

At least Mick knows what he means.

"I know," Mick says. "And you to me, don't think you're not. But we're here. I'm pretty sure that this is where the time puppies want us to go, all the dreams, everything. And I don't know what happens here, or – or if I come back from it."

"You'd better."

"Boss –"

"You'd _better_ ," Len says. "We're not discussing any alternatives."

"But –"

" _No_ , Mick. Now let's get a move on, okay?"

"I'll do my best to stay by your side," Mick says. He doesn't just mean physically. 

Len nods tightly.

"Lenny," Mick says, putting his hand on Len's shoulder. 

"What?" Len asks, tightly coiled. "You gonna say it's all right? That nothing's gonna happen? Don't say it unless you think it's true."

Mick remains silent.

"That's what I thought," Len says, closing his eyes. "Damn the timeline, Mick, and damn the time puppies and whoever's sending them, too. I don't care. I just don't want to lose you."

"I know," Mick says. "But we're doing this anyway."

"Yeah, we are," Len concedes with a tired sigh. "Tell me, Mick, when did a pair of thieves end up as heroes? I don't remember signing up for that."

"I think it happened when you adopted the Flash," Mick says thoughtfully.

"I did not _adopt_ the _Flash_ – "

"Nora did."

"Yeah, well, I'm not _Nora_ ," Len points out, familiar bickering helping to lift his spirits. He and Mick were never ones for big emotional talks anyway. He turns back from the corner they were hiding in to start making his way to where the rest of the group should be waiting. "Besides, she's his biological mom; she can't _adopt_ him anyway –"

"Technically, she's his _dead_ biological mom," Mick points out in return, following in Len's path. "Doesn't that make her lose custody?"

"Well, I think –"

"I don't mind," Mick says abruptly. Len stops and glances at him. "I don't mind," Mick repeats. "Being by your side instead of with the others. I just wanted you to know that. This way I get to keep an eye on you, keep you safe, and that's all I've ever wanted. I just – I just wanted to talk about it, because I'm not letting you hold me in reserve forever and I wanted you to be ready for that. Okay?"

"I won’t keep you from doing whatever you want," Len says, and means it as much as he can while still holding fast to his commitment not to let anything bad happen to Mick. "I never would if I could, you know that. But at the same time, you're not wrong about me being twitchy, recently. But – you can trust me on one thing, though. If the plan had _really_ needed you on the other ship, I – I – well, I'm not saying I wouldn't have still tried to have you here, but I would've talked about it with you first. I wouldn't bench you for no reason. I'd explain, first."

"Good," Mick says. Then – "You _did_ adopt the Junior Rogues, though."

"Yeah, and see where it got me," Len shoots back, happy to return to the lighter subject. "One of 'em is in the Firestorm triad and the other one's Kid Flash. Two heroes."

"For shame," Mick says mildly. "And here you are, an honest villain, just minding your own business – not doing anything heroic at all –"

"Oh, shut up," Len says, pressing his lips together to hide his laughter. 

"You two done yet?" Sara asks, poking her head out into the corridor without warning. She has a habit of appearing places without any notice; Len's not sure if it's because of her ninja training or because she's hoping to catch him and Mick going at it one day. 

"Yeah, we're done," Len says, rolling his eyes at Mick, who smirks. "Let's go."

The plan is distressing in its simplicity. Len starts by assuming – however wrong that assumption may end up being – that most of the Time Masters are like Rip and therefore not in the know about the whole medium/necromancy thing. Rip identified various leaders – Declan, Druce, Kieran, Savir, Adani; interestingly all men despite the Time Masters' supposedly gender-neutral promotion structure – that were most likely to be involved, and they were far too important to be on watch or scouting duties at all times. 

The goal, therefore, is to go in through the front door, since it was the only available way in, but to do so at the same time as a bigger, louder distraction, and therefore hopefully get overlooked in the ruckus.

Rip immediately volunteered to act as distraction.

That's a good thing, since in Len's view, Rip is the only one capable of orchestrating precisely the distraction Len is hoping to achieve.

Rip is going to take the Waverider into the Vanishing Point, right through the Time Masters' entrance. He will be, to all appearances, alone. Alone – and repentant of his horrible mistakes in doubting the Time Masters' word.

Naturally, Rip won't actually be alone. Mick hadn't been wrong when he pointed out that Len's plan involved crewing the Waverider with all the ghosts (but Mick) at their disposal. The ghosts (and Mick’s time puppies) will be lying low, staying invisible and resisting any urge to interfere – Len had, at their request, made that a power-backed order, infused with his willpower and the gift of life to strengthen all of them – and they will be there to ensure that Rip isn't summarily killed.

"That won't happen," Rip said when Len was explaining the plan. 

"You've been proven wrong about their good faith before, Rip," Sara said.

"No – it's not that. I don’t mean they wouldn’t kill me. I just mean that there's no chance that they would ever kill me without an excruciatingly long trial or, at the very least, several very long speeches explaining in detail why I was wrong and how they defeated me," Rip said. He smiled wryly. "I know them well enough for that."

"Lesson one of Junior Rogues," Jax said. "No villain monologuing."

"Now, now, Jefferson, we appreciate our enemies' mistakes," Stein said. "May they make many of them." 

"I suspect they don't see it as monologuing," Rip said dryly. "It's meant to be more educational in nature."

"What, right before they kill you?" Sara asked skeptically.

"I didn't say it was supposed to be educational for _me_..."

It'd taken some pointed throat-clearing before they allowed Len to get back to explaining the plan. Rip will arrive, apparently alone, and very loudly proclaiming that he's seen the error of his ways. While that is hopefully distracting everyone, the rest of them will slip in through the front door in the Hunters' ship and go around to the bounty hunters' entrance – the ship's AI, a soulless creature entirely unlike Gideon, assured them it knew the way and would get them there without difficulty, and further that the Hunters' ships were not catalogued as thoroughly as the Time Masters' own vessels. That way, with luck, they can minimize the number of people who know they're there. 

Once they find their way to a good spot inside, they'll split up. Len normally dislikes that approach, but he can see no other way of minimizing their chance of capture. Regardless, the goal for each group will be to find out what the Time Masters are up to and try to figure out a way to stop it.

Now all that's left is to do it. 

"One question," Sara says to Len in an undertone as their ship inches forward towards the Vanishing Point, which is – as Rip explained – a space station. It's very impressive, all connected platforms and docking stations and all that; pity it belongs to such assholes. "How exactly are we supposed to snoop around without them noticing?"

"You're a ninja assassin, I'm sure you can figure something out," Len tells her. "Besides, if we're really lucky, the Time Masters will let something slip to Rip while they're arresting him."

She chuckles. "And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we do our best to find out what they're up to," Len says, amusement fading. "And, if we've gotta, destroy it."

Sara nods. "Good luck," she says, nodding first at Len, then at Mick. Len volunteered them to be the first ones out the door and into the Vanishing Point proper, and that means they're the first ones to see what the inside of this futuristic space station-slash-evil overlord's lair looks like.

Honestly? For a place with such an intricate, futuristic exterior, the inside of the Vanishing Point is – disappointing. 

"What sorta inhuman sociopaths have all the architecture of human history at their fingertips and willingly opt for Brutalism?" Mick grumbles. "Monsters."

"I'm supposed to be a master thief, Mick," Len reminds him. "Please stop making me laugh in the middle of a job."

Mick smirks.

“Besides,” Len says. “It ain’t _totally_ minimalist. Look, there are those vases at almost every corner. I think they might be secret signposts.”

They both stare for a moment at the next one they see – it’s less a vase than a bleak off-white bucket with a slightly narrower neck, sitting atop a vaguely ionic style pillar that clashes horribly with the rest of the décor – and then Mick shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “I refuse to believe those things have any meaningful purpose.”

“Dunno. They convey ‘abandon all hope ye who enter here’ pretty well to me.”

Mick sniggers.

But his laughter swiftly fades as they walk further inside the Hunters' bare-bones structure. "You feel that?" he asks, stopping at the end of the hallway to wait for the others to catch up. There's only been one hallway extending out from the docking bay so far, so there's no point in going separately until they can actually find a place to split up. 

"Feels wrong," Len agrees. He can't state exactly why – there's no sound that he can identify, no hints of plans gone awry, no medium-made boundaries, nothing but a feeling of increasing wrongness, like he's walking into a swamp and the air is growing increasingly thick with it. 

"I don't feel anything," Jax volunteers as he and Stein catch up. Stein nods in agreement.

"I think I do," Sara says, nose wrinkling, coming up behind them with the others. "Something stinks. Not, like, literally, but – you know what I mean."

"It feels wrong," Kendra agrees. 

"I'm with Jax and Stein," Ray says, looking at Kendra apologetically. "I don't feel anything."

"Makes sense," Len says. "Whatever's gone off here is related to ghosts; reasonable that the ones of us closest to 'em would be the ones to notice. Give us a heads up if you do start to feel something - if you feel it, that means _anyone_ can feel it."

"What about you, Hex?" Ray asks.

Jonah Hex has his hand on his gun and his face drawn tight. "I feel like I'm walking into a hornets' nest naked," he says flatly. "Not like a smell, though; just some good old-fashioned paranoia."

"Fair enough," Stein says. "Er – shouldn't there be Hunters here? If these are their quarters?"

"They are here," Mick says. His voice has suddenly gone grim and thick with anger - no, not just anger; rage. Len glances at him even as the other Legends start looking around frantically for the oncoming ambush. Len's not worried – Mick would've warned of ambush if that's what he feared. But he’s angry enough that his eyes are a little brighter than usual, the full force of the most powerful poltergeist Len’s ever known lurking there. "In the rooms." 

They've been passing a series of doors with narrow round windows in front, not unlike a ship of some sort. Len hadn't really been paying much attention after the first few turned out to be empty; he knew he could count on Mick to let him know if there was anything. Clearly, he missed something. 

Jax goes over to glance through one of those windows, and his face takes on a similar expression to Mick's: deep anger.

Len looks inside of the next one.

A woman is lying there on a cot so sparse it wouldn't be out of place in one of the prisons Len's frequented. Her clothing is dark and cheap and unvaried, a prison uniform in near-black, and she's staring at the ceiling, unblinking. There is only one piece of furniture in the room: a stand, holding armor and guns. The tools of her trade.

Len can't see her eyes, but if he had to bet, they'd be as vacant and empty of spirit as the eyes of the empty helmet that rests on the stand. 

"What did they do to these people?" Sara asks in a whisper, her voice thick with horror and anger. 

Len finds his own lips pressed together, his teeth grinding, and relaxes his jaw with a force of will. _Now is not the time to lose your cool_ , he reminds himself – that reminder always seems to come into his dad's voice, which is awful, but always works – and swallows his anger.

Then he looks around the hallway they’ve been heading down, all filled with identical windows, with new eyes and realizes the problem. 

"They'll be ready to fight us if they're told to," he says. "And if most of these rooms are full, that means we’re surrounded by them. Who wants to bet that there's some way for the Time Masters to activate them so that they’re going to rise up all together if we get caught any further in?”

"Yeah, no kidding," Ray says. "Classic of sci-fi cinema." He gnaws at his lip. "What do we do?"

"Split up," Len says definitively. It's earlier than he would've liked, but there are more Hunters than he'd thought and it's not a threat they can afford to ignore.

"Wait, what? Already?" Kendra asks in a hushed whisper, her eyes wide and her hands clenched around the dagger they'd gotten way back in the '50s. Len had very nearly forgotten about it – hell, he'd say he'd nearly forgotten about _Savage_ , what with the impending Time Master threat, but he's pretty sure he's never going to forget the horrific sight of Carter's ghost writhing as he was ripped apart.

Even if that handy reincarnation business _has_ brought him back. 

Len glances at the still-silent ghost that haunts Kendra's steps. 

Well, Kendra and Ray's.

Len would snark about that being an unexpected twist to a love triangle, but he's married to a ghost that died before his father was born. He knows when he has no standing to say anything. 

"-- you sure that's a good idea?" Ray is saying, putting an armor-gloved hand on Kendra's hip in silent comfort. "The movies –"

"I know what the movies say," Len says. "But as good or bad of an idea as it is, we _have_ to split up. Like I said before, if this is an ambush, we have to ensure that some people stay free to rescue the others. If it isn't, we _still_ have to split up, because this place isn't that tiny and we have no idea what we're looking for."

"Evidence of the Time Masters' perfidy?" Stein suggests.

"We ain't bringing them before a court, Professor," Mick rumbles, but he looks distracted and doesn't finish the thought.

"Mick's right," Len says, stepping in to cover before anyone notices. "We need to find out what they're up to, and we need to _stop_ it. Jax, Stein, you two are the best at figuring out new technology – "

The two of them, standing close in case they need to Firestorm, look surprised and pleased, especially once they dart furtive glances at Ray and see him nodding in agreement.

Which is good, because Ray is a mechanical genius, but he's not as intuitive as Jax and Stein are. He's a brilliant thinker, but he needs the trial and error process to make his way to the right answer, and they don't have the time for that.

"– so I want you two to stay here," Len concludes.

"In _creepy town_?!" Jax hisses.

"Yeah, exactly," Len says. "Find a control center. Best case scenario, figure out what the Time Masters did to these people and see if you can do anything to undo it. If you can't, just figure out a way to lock the door so these –" He can't think of a term strong enough. "Listen, they might be victims, but right now they look like they’re mindless goats, you get me? We need to make sure they don't come up behind us and shoot us in the back."

"That makes a distressing amount of sense," Stein says with a sigh. 

"Damnit," Jax says, but he's nodding. 

"Ray –"

"I'm with Kendra," he says immediately.

"Good," Len says. That'd been the plan anyway. "You, Kendra, and Carter, at the next four-way node we find, go right. Be as quiet and as subtle as you can. Ray – that means shrinking down and riding along in Kendra's pocket if necessary, and more important, if something happens, _don't panic_. You might need to let Kendra get captured and then rescue her later."

Ray looks about to protest, but Kendra is nodding, so he subsides. 

Len has absolutely no faith that Ray's going to be able to stick to that plan, he's a bit too impulsive and heroic for that, but whatever. It was worth at least suggesting it - after all, who knows? The reminder just might make him pause long enough to put it into action. 

"And us?" Sara asks. 

"Mick and I go left," Len says. "You and Hex go forward. Goal one, find whatever the Time Masters are up to. Goal two, overlapping with goal one, rescue Rip."

"Can do," Hex says. "Think you can keep up?" he asks Sara.

Sara's eyebrows go up. "Oh, boy," she says. " _You're_ certainly in for a surprise. Did you not see me fight last time?" 

“I was a mite distracted by the flying man on fire,” Hex replies.

Sara considers that for a second, then shrugs, agreeing. 

"We need to go," Mick says. He's still distracted, which usually means fire, but in this instance seems to be something else.

Goddamn time puppy dreams, no doubt.

“Everyone have their comms?” Len asks. Everyone nods. “Good. Don’t use ‘em unless it’s an emergency. We don’t know who might be listening in.”

More nods.

“Radio silence,” Jax says. “Got it, boss.” 

“Good,” Len says. He doesn’t believe in saying good luck, so he just nods sharply back and then they all move out. 

Gideon has parked the Waverider amongst the Hunter ships and put up the camouflage to hide the fact that it's there. Len's given her the strongest possible instructions about needing to track them in case they need a quick exit, and she's agreed. 

She also talked to Sara about the other Time Master ships. Len's pretty sure Sara's carrying explosives with intent to use. 

Not that he's objecting.

"Mick?" he murmurs once they're alone, heading left down the passageway as cautiously as Len knows how.

"We need to go in deeper," Mick replies.

"I need your head in the game, Mick," Len says. "Here and now. Save the dreams for later."

Mick grimaces, but nods.

Len hesitates, but he has to ask. "We going the right way? Dream-wise?"

"Oh yeah," Mick replies, voice grim. "I recognize these halls. Not quite the right one yet, but this is the style."

Dreams of being pulled down a hallway, with something terrible and bright at the end, and they've found the right style of hallway.

 _Great_.

Len can't afford to worry about this now.

If Mick's going to be distracted, and for all Len's warnings there's no way he's not going to be, then that just means that it's up to Len to be hyper-vigilant. 

"Be ready to go invisible at a moment's notice if someone spots us," he instructs Mick, who nods.

Len takes care to keep his footsteps muffled and to keep close to the walls, but it's almost not worth the effort. The few times anyone comes by, they're so deeply intent on their own business that they are utterly oblivious to their surroundings. They're all wearing identical robes, too, which means that grabbing a set will make him and Mick blend in perfectly.

Len says as much to Mick, who grunts in agreement and promptly hops out of the closet they're currently hiding in, hitting the two passing Time Masters over the head. Len hastily joins in to subdue them.

"That's not what I meant," Len says to Mick, slightly annoyed. "I _meant_ that we could find some spares. Something that _won't_ risk people raising an alarm when they find two unconscious bodies."

"Sorry," Mick says, but he's not really paying attention. 

"You know better than to start freestyling without checking in with me," Len says crossly. When Mick doesn't respond, Len snaps his fingers in front of his face. Several times.

"Hey, stop that," Mick says, batting Len's hand away.

"I need your head screwed on straight, Mick," Len says. "I know it's weird being here, but _get over it_."

This time Mick actually looks shame-faced. "Sorry, boss," he mutters. "I'll do better."

"I just want to do this job and get it over with," Len says, keeping his tone as cool and measured as he can get it when he’s quietly going crazy with worry over his unusually absent-minded partner. "Please don't drift on me, Mick. Best you can do."

"Promise," Mick says, and Len is satisfied to see the focus come back into his eyes.

And, well, since they _did_ get the robes...

Honestly, having the robes on makes the whole process almost too easy. No one so much as glances at them as they walk past.

Unfortunately, there isn't anything _else_ either. The rooms are libraries, offices, bedrooms, storage units – plenty of stuff, but not anything that's even remotely important. And Len _knows_ important, even when it's hidden. 

Especially when it's hidden. It's literally his job to be able to sniff it out. 

"Nothing," he murmurs to Mick after checking another room. It doesn't make sense – given the Time Masters' concern about not freeing the angel at the Refuge, _something_ should be happening as a result of what they've done – something noticeable – unless this whole thing was a trap –

"Boss!"

Len turns at Mick's alarmed hiss, and then he sees Rip.

Rip's walking through the hallways in the company of a handful of Time Masters. He's not handcuffed and he's walking free, which gives Len a half-second burst of paranoia – was it a trap all along? Was Rip in on it? – before the full context of the scene settles in. Rip's unbound, yes, and walking with Time Masters, but he's followed closely by Hunters with hands casually set on weapons. 

The Time Masters are talking to Rip – something about duty and loyalty, as far as Len can read from their lips. 

No, this isn't a betrayal; this is exactly what they expected.

Rip's getting the walk of shame through the hallway, being led by triumphant Time Masters, and with any luck distracting them from the other people arriving at the same time.

Luckily, Time Masters as oblivious as the rest of them, though, so Len is able to slink closer – after all, while figuring out what the Time Masters are up to is a priority, so is rescuing Rip. Len isn't the sort to sacrifice people who stay loyal to him, no matter how annoying he sometimes finds them.

The Time Masters lead Rip around the corner, and Len waits for their entourage to follow so that he can slip behind it.

That's when he sees what Mick must have seen.

Ghosts.

To be specific, _Len's_ ghosts, Svetlana's ghostly crew – Parvati and Jack and Ahmed and little Miko. 

All four of them there, walking in a line, all the ghostly crew but for Svetlana herself; they’re surrounded by Hunters and they're handcuffed the way Rip so notably isn't.

Normally, this wouldn't bother Len – they're ghosts, powerful ones, and handcuffs mean less than nothing to them – but this wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan at all – they were supposed to sneak in, invisible, unseen. 

Why did they permit themselves to be captured?

Len studies them, frown deepening.

Something's not right.

Parvati is stumbling, with Miko trying to edge forward to help her. 

Jack is prodding at his thigh. He looks surprised. 

Ahmed – Ahmed is scowling at his handcuffs.

Scowling, as if they're the problem they would've been if they weren't ghosts.

And yet, despite all of these hints, Len is only able to accept the truth of what's plainly in front of him when Parvati stumbles again, and one of the Hunters escorting her jabs at her with the butt of his pulse rifle, causing her to stumble again.

"They're _solid_ ," Len breathes, feeling like a bucket of cold water's just been dumped over him as the realization sinks in. 

This is worse than he could've imagined. His plan had assumed that the Time Masters were terrible mediums, and he still believes that to be the case, but it _doesn't matter_ how terrible they are if they've found a way to solidify ghosts, trapping them in their bodily shapes.

A trap like that, laid over an entire domain, would need incalculable power –

Say, like the sort you might get by trapping an angel in a forest rotting with its own growth and pulsing with desperate power in its attempts to get out.

That can't be everything that's going on – Len can't believe that all this was to stop a ghostly attack – but it's bad enough.

They're going to need to adjust their plans accordingly.

Especially in regards to Mick. No invisibility, who knows what happens to his invulnerability – no, Len won't be able to risk him in a place like this.

"Mick," Len says, turning, "we need to –"

The hallway is empty.

Mick is gone.


	47. 46

Len follows the Time Masters.

It's not like he's found any other leads in this desolate place, and as long as he glides along purposefully, looking nobly distracted with serious questions about life, the universe, and everything, no one questions the presence of yet another robed figure. 

Distraction is a pretty easy look to pull off.

_Mick_.

Fuck, Len knew this whole thing was a bad idea. He's known this was a bad idea from the beginning, this whole time travel bullshit, but coming here – Len _knew_ this job was snake-bit cursed, and like a total idiot he went in on it anyway.

Getting swept up in ghosts and Time Masters and angels is no excuse for forgetting the fundamental principles of the job, and number one, above all else, is: if it feels like it's going bad, it almost certainly _is_ , and that means it's time to jump ship. 

Everyone always talks about how superstitious sailors are. In Len's opinion, they've got it no worse than thieves. 

Mick.

Len has to remind the part of himself crying out for his partner that Mick's an adult – and more than that, a _ghost_ , a powerful poltergeist, nearly a century old – and that he's perfectly capable of handling himself. If Mick left, and Len’s got to assume that he left voluntarily, it's probably because of that damn dream of his. And because of those damn time puppies. 

Besides. Len can handle himself without ghosts, and Mick knows that. It's... _unusual_ for Mick to ditch Len in the middle of a job, but it's not necessarily _unheard_ of. Len's good at his job, with or without ghosts. With or without his partner.

The fact that he strongly prefers _with_ is irrelevant.

Len’s so incredibly tempted to break his own rule on radio silence and call for Mick over the comms, but without evidence of any wrongdoing beyond Mick wandering off, he knows he can’t. It’s his own rule – he knows it, Mick knows it, Jax knows it. 

A moment’s worry about a crew member, even a partner, doesn’t qualify as an emergency sufficient to break radio silence unless there’s an actual _reason_ to believe something’s gone wrong.

Len hates his rule.

The group of Time Masters surrounding Rip split off from the Hunters, who start ushering the ghosts into what are clearly holding cells. 

Len lingers for half a minute – he knows that the information he's looking for will be with the Time Masters, not here, and he can at least comfort himself with the fact that those are definitely holding cells and probably not whatever the hell they used to make people into Hunters, but he can't help the moment of worry for ghosts carrying themselves with the unfamiliar weight of solid flesh – and he hears one of the Hunters scoff and say, "Where'd they even pick you up? And _why_?" at Parvati.

That clinches a suspicion Len's been nursing as he's followed them all this way, watching the way the Hunters have been treating the ghosts – not like ghosts at all, but rather like people, like thieves, like no threat at all. 

Parvati's eyes flash white – less a sign of power here than of sheer ghostly rage – but it's only a split second before it fades away again, drained out by the force of this place. 

The Hunter doesn't notice.

Len's not surprised. If the Hunters are too mindless to properly identify the ghosts as ghosts, then obvious signs are clearly lost on them.

No, whatever they’ve managed to accomplish, the Time Masters are clearly still terrible mediums. 

It's not necessarily a comfort to know that his plan _would've_ worked if this place wasn't cursed or whatever the hell is going on with it, but it's good to know. 

But in the end, there's nothing he can do about the ghosts' predicament for now. Len has to assume the ghosts will be fine – though he desperately wants to know where Svetlana is; hopefully she escaped? – and leave them where they are. Rescuing them now would blow his cover wide open, and it doesn't look like they'll suffer anything worse than cages for now. 

The mission takes precedence.

So Len follows Rip, instead.

The Time Masters - one walking in the lead with Rip, flanked by three others - are clearly so confident that Rip won't resist them that they go so far as to dismiss the Hunters entirely.

That seems to surprise Rip.

"What, Rip?" the head Time Master – the same one who called the Matron about the alarm, who goes by the name of Druce, and Len thinks he might even be the one that tried to ambush Rip in the forest way back towards the beginning – asks, looking smug. "Did you think you are nothing more than a prisoner, my friend?"

He puts a friendly hand on Rip's arm.

"I- I mean - I broke the rules," Rip stammers. "As you pointed out when we last met."

"Ah, yes," Druce says, his voice still smug and condescending with the assumption of victory. "But before you did not know the truth. Once you see the truth, you will understand everything we have sought to do here, why we have done all the things we have done, made all the sacrifices we had to make." He smiles. "That is why I dismissed the Hunters. These are matters for Time Masters only."

Len wonders spitefully if they're taking Rip to the large antechamber he'd seen earlier, clearly designed for either show trials or ritualized murder. For all of Druce's pretty words about dismissing the Hunters, there are still three hooded Time Masters following them, and they're clearly there to keep an eye on Rip.

"You really are working with Savage," Rip whispers, something in Druce's manner making him believe it, really believe it at last. Perhaps it was Druce's slick, unashamed demeanor. "My family..."

"We warned you against unnecessary emotional involvements," Druce says. His voice is warm, friendly. He's charismatic and he thinks it'll get him everywhere. Len hates that type of guy. "It was for your own sake, Rip. We tried to spare you this pain."

"You _caused_ me this pain!"

"Yes, we did. But it was in the service of a higher cause," Druce says.

"For what?" Rip demands. "For the _timeline_?! What, are you going to tell me that there's some devastating attack on humanity that only this course of action could prevent? What could it possibly be? Savage is a _tyrant_ –"

"Rip, Rip, Rip," Druce says. "Please, be calm."

"If you had an _argument_ as to why Savage's evil should've been permitted to flourish and take root throughout the world, you could have just _told_ me," Rip says, no longer yelling, but his voice filled with hurt. "There was no reason to – to – to _kill_ my _family_."

"You think too small, my friend," Druce says. "The timeline – yes, the timeline is sacred. But there are still higher causes."

Rip stares at Druce, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He clearly hadn't expected that.

"I will show you," Druce says. 

He takes Rip – and Len, drifting close behind but not too close to be noticed – to a remote outpost of the station, down long, grey corridors that all look the same.

The actual place Druce is headed to is actually a building a little outside of the main complex, surrounded by some sort of pseudo park. If parks were soulless collections of bushes put in place to make people regret being alive, anyway.

Really, the fact that Len, a city boy to the bone, has started criticizing _horticultural design_ says everything you need to know about these people...

Of course, all that open space makes it a little more difficult for Len to follow along.

A little.

Not much.

Besides, now that they're out in the park, Len can observe that the building isn't even actually really an outpost: it's actually connected to the rest of the complex by a long corridor leading straight through it from the other side, which means that Druce just chose to go the scenic route for some reason. Worst case scenario, Len can double back and go down that route. But Len is far from needing to fall back on the worst case scenario.

Druce also unhelpfully leaves the other Time Masters as guards at the door to the outpost, but ye old "throw a rock to distract them with a noise" gag – surprisingly useful even outside of movies – works like a charm and he can slip inside.

Of course, it's only once Len's inside the building that he gets the sickening twist of nausea building up in his stomach, the horrible feeling of _wrongness_ , of horror, of suffering, of – he doesn't know what to call it, not really, but it feels the same as being filled up with the insane angel's rotting energy. Wrong, and sick, and Len hates it immediately.

"– is that?" Rip is asking, gagging.

"You become accustomed to it, in time," Druce says soothingly, like that's not the most horrible thing that could be said about the place. Sure, you _can_ acclimate to horror – but why _would_ you? Willingly, even?

They're not even all the way inside yet, either; it's a small entrance room. Druce's waiting for Rip to get over himself before they pass through the internal door at the other end.

Len does _not_ want to go through that door.

He doesn't think he has a choice in the matter.

Those goddamn time puppies had better know what they're about, sending Mick on this horrible mission. 

Mick, who is – somewhere.

Mick, who can handle himself, damnit.

"Feeling better?" Druce asks after a few minutes of Rip composing himself. 

"No," Rip says bitterly, but it's obvious he's not as bad off as he was when they first came in. "What is this place? I never knew of it."

"It's our holiest of holies," Druce says, smiling and calm. Len imagines that genocidal war criminals smile the way Druce is smiling right now, utterly oblivious to the blasphemies against basic humanity spilling from their lips. "We call it the Oculus."

"The Oculus?" Rip echoes.

"Oh, yes," Druce says, and he opens the door. "Our friend Savage, though, he has a different name for it."

The second that door cracks open, Len is rooted to the spot. He can't run, he can't hide, he can't maintain his cover; the only thing saving him is that Druce and Rip aren't looking back. 

"He calls it a Well of Souls," Druce says, and steps through into the screams.

A Well.

The angel had spoken of a well, a pit, a valley –

Come to think of it, Len's mother had mentioned a valley the few times she'd lost her temper enough to curse in front of him - Gehenom, she called it, the valley of lost spirits, the word that when it was converted to English was mistranslated as Hell.

Len's not so sure, anymore, that it's a mistranslation.

They're screaming.

Those of them that can, anyway.

Not all of them can, though, and that's the real horror of it.

Ghosts.

So many ghosts.

Len fancied himself capable of calling armies of ghosts – he was an idiot.

This is more than an army. Numbers uncounted, numbers _uncountable_ , more than Len's worst nightmares as a child could have even conceived of.

Len can't even see them all. The ones at the edges – Len uses the term lightly – swirl around in furious madness, trying to escape, pulled in inexorably despite pulsing with power. 

And at the center –

Infinity. 

A shining white light at the core, the color of ghostly rage and pain, ghosts entrenched and centered as if frozen in ice, ghost upon ghost upon ghost until they've lost all definition, boiled down to their very essence and nothing more.

It’s an abomination.

There are more dead here than there are currently living in the world. Add to that alternative histories, timeline changes, history itself, and the number of dead is truly endless. A ghost should move on, Len has always held that truism close to his heart; no matter how much he likes one or wishes one would stay, what's best for them is to move on.

And he's always lived by that, too, for all of them except for Mick, who laughed in Len's face when he tentatively suggested it, who promised that they would pass on together and who wouldn't take no for an answer, who _is not here_ –

Focus.

Focus, Len, you need to _focus_ or they're going to _see you_.

Len grits his teeth and scans the area for a hiding spot. There aren't really any good ones, but ducking behind a slight curve in the wall seems to work well enough. Druce is staring at the center of the Well - a glowing light emerging out of a pit buried beneath the building, with some sort of platform on top of it - as if entranced, and Rip's head keeps swiveling between Druce and the Well as if he were a bobble-head doll. 

Len can scarcely look at it. He can scarcely look away.

He mostly just wants to throw up.

The ghosts, normally attuned to Len's presence, haven't noticed him yet, which is one small piece of luck. Len hates having to count luck in the pain of others, but they're far too frenzied to pay attention, even to him.

Or perhaps it's that they know that they could bleed him dry and it still wouldn't be enough power for them to break free of this ghastly pit.

God, king of the world, who would _do_ something like this?

And _why_?

"What is it?" Rip asks, breaking Druce's almost ecstatic contemplation of the horror that is the Well, but Druce is only put off for a moment – the briefest hint of a snarl, wiped away almost as soon as it's formed – and then he's turning to Rip, all smiles and smoothness and as if that small break in his façade had never happened.

But it had, and Len's lived in the slums too long not to know what a man forced away from his addiction looks like. 

"We call it the Oculus," Druce tells Rip, charisma back in full force, the charming teacher once more. "It's a wellspring of time itself - a quirk of the timestream that captures spirits in the moment before their passing –"

More than a moment. Much, much more than a moment. 

"– and gathers them here, where the power of their lost lives pools together into a powerful core. It offers unimaginable possibilities – to look into time, not as visitors in the time stream, but as _true_ masters of it. From where we stand, we can change the very flow of time itself."

"Then – that's why," Rip says, his voice strained. "That's why I couldn't rescue my family. That's why we couldn't kill Savage! You were stopping us the whole time, from here! Using _this_!"

"That's correct," Druce says.

"But we got close," Rip says. "Closer than you’d like. The Hunters – the time in the 1950s –"

Again, that flash of a snarl, followed by composure. 

"The Oculus is a delicate tool," Druce says smoothly. "We can influence the very circumstances of events, but individuals can sometimes disrupt even the most finely calibrated adjustments."

Len translates that as meaning that the Oculus is all well and good, but free will is still free will. Good to know. 

Druce doesn't seem like the sort of person who appreciates the philosophical niceties of free will, though. No, anyone who would look at the tortured ghosts of the Well and think not of _helping_ them but of _using_ them, and not just using them, but using them to try to subjugate _time itself_ for his own ends –

Well. Len has words for that sort of person, but none of them are fit for polite company. 

Rip's mind seems have been working along different lines. "You say it works by – by capturing the power of spirits?" he asks. 

"It does," Druce says. 

Rip looks around. "They're screaming," he says, very faintly. 

Len shudders. If Rip – who is generally oblivious to any ghosts but the two that haunt his mind – can see the ghosts of the Well, then they must be visible to anybody. Their pain on display for all.

"Hardly," Druce says dismissively. "That sound is merely the by-product of the Oculus' working. Here, let me show you a mere taste of its power."

Len has to swallow the instinctive cry of denial. Stay hidden, he reminds himself. This is why you're here. You need to fix this.

No matter what.

Fuck, this must be why the ghosts are visible here, in the Vanishing Point; they're close enough to be affected.

Maybe even to be drawn in.

Mick –!

Mick is still outside, Len reminds himself. Mick is still safe. Right now you need to stay hidden, and watch, and learn, and once they are gone, you can figure out a way to destroy this thing.

Len finds he talks to himself a lot more, without ghosts around. He's not sure he likes it.

Druce, meanwhile, has pulled a lever or two to move the platform above the center of the Well, what he calls the Oculus, around so that it extends out a bridge from that platform straight to their feet. On the platform is some sort of giant hulking machine, and the infinite brightness of the Well pours out from beneath the platform, and as far as Len can tell the only way on and off is that newly extended bridge, an extremely narrow bridge that Len can see is shaking with the power of ghostly hands trying to disrupt it. 

Druce walks over it without paying the slightest bit of attention.

Rip looks more dubious.

"Rip, my old friend," Druce says, turning. "Come now. You never used to be this cowardly."

That hits Rip right where Druce aimed it, making Rip puff up in annoyance and march forward across the bridge.

Druce looks smugly pleased at his successful manipulation; Rip, when he realizes what just happened, looks angry at himself for falling for it.

Druce puts a hand on Rip's back. "Now, my friend," he says. " _Look_."

The machine in the center of the platform rumbles to life, cracking open to reveal a single broad beam of light, a foot or two wide, heading up to the ceiling. And in that light –

Images.

Faces, shapes; people moving; things happening.

"All this," Rip says, struggling to keep his voice level, "for an inferior version of television?"

Len can't help a small smirk. Go, Rip.

Druce looks put out for a moment, but quickly regains his equilibrium. "Hardly just that," he says. "We can look throughout history, any moment, any era –" He smirks. "– and change it."

He reaches out and touches the beam of light, where an image of a battle plays out before them.

One of the figures staggers, distracted mid-battle, and dies from a sword to the chest.

"Why did you do that?" Rip demands.

"An example of what we can do -"

"You killed him!"

"He wasn't important to the timeline anyway," Druce says dismissively. "Rip, can't you see what this means? We can preserve the timeline, adjust it –"

"You have Time Masters for that," Rip says. "And Hunters, too, when you need them."

"This is so much _more_ than that," Druce says, his eagerness evident. He's not just an addict, he's on a mission to convert others to his cause. "This is _Time_ , Rip; Time itself at our command. And once we are able to access the full power of the spirits, we will be able to move through it and shape it at will, creating the history we should have had, the history humanity should have had, a _glorious_ history –"

"You're speaking of changing the timeline for your own interests!" Rip cries out. "That's contrary to everything you ever taught me – that the timeline is _sacred_ – the only people who change it at will are _pirates_ – you declared _me_ a pirate, just for trying to save my family from their fate - for changing the timeline –"

"We're not talking about changing the timeline, Rip," Druce says calmly. 

"No?" Rip says challengingly. "Then what _are_ you talking about, Master Druce?"

"We're talking about _rewriting_ it," Druce says, and smiles that same genial, pleasant, charismatic smile. "There won't have ever been a different timeline, when we're done with it."

Rip stares at him in horror.

After a few moments, he says, "But you can't yet, can you?"

Druce frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've been controlling the timeline all along," Rip says. "Gathering up Time Masters and using us to keep history the way you prefer, but time wants to happen and you couldn't change everything. The method you controlled time through us was too inefficient. That's why you turned to this. But you can't just start using the Oculus to change everything the way you want it, either, because you _don't know how_. That's why you're working with Savage – you think _he_ can do it."

"Yes," Druce says. "His knowledge, paired with ours –"

"He'll only betray you," Rip says bitterly. "Betray and manipulate, the way he has every other empire he's puppeted. Surely you must know that."

"We're hardly novices at this," Druce reminds Rip with a genial laugh. "We know very well what he does, or at least tries to do. Do not worry. Savage will be very firmly under our control. In fact, we've even agreed to let him rule the world for a period –"

"Oh, yes, in 2166," Rip says. "When my family was killed by him and his soldiers – following the intentional release of a plague that more than decimated the world's population!"

"Yes," Druce says. He sounds undisturbed by the prospect. "Speaking of which, why _didn't_ you and your little crew go to the Kasnia era? We'd set up the signs and hints for you; your interference there would have been most beneficial – you wouldn't have been able to bring yourself to actually kill Per Degaton, of course, it's not in your personality to murder children. But your interference would have radicalized him much sooner, leading to an earlier takeover timeline for Savage."

Rip stares at his former mentor. "And at what cost? Millions dead? Kasnia's utopia replaced by Per Degaton's ruthless rule years earlier than it should have been? An earlier start to the conscriptions, the executions, the wholesale slaughter?"

"Savage needs to take over in that period," Druce says calmly. "The loss of 60% of the world's population to the plague, Per Degaton, and Savage is better than the total elimination of humanity at the hands of the Thanagarian invasion some years later. Under Savage's unified control, the world will be able to resist them."

"And it gets him the control he wants," Rip says, disgusted. "Which in turn gets you what _you_ really want – his help. Did you even _try_ to find another path? Or did you just throw in all your chips with him at once?"

"Rip, Rip, Rip," Druce says, shaking his head. "You're missing the bigger picture. Once Savage helps us crack the Oculus and turn it to our use, we won't need his assistance anymore. And once that happens, we can simply rewrite the timeline from an earlier period for the betterment of all humanity so that none of that pain and loss and death ever happened. Imagine it, Rip: no Dark Ages –"

"No Renaissance," Rip shoots back. "No spread of Arabic culture with all its magnificence. No freedom, no ingenuity, no adversity – damnit, Druce, can't you see the madness in what you're proposing? And tell me, how will you guarantee that this power you're suggesting you harness not fall into the hands of madmen and dictators, who don't want the betterment of all humanity but nothing more than their own power? What happens, Druce, when you _die_?"

"Savage has agreed to help us solve that problem as well," Druce says mildly.

It takes Rip a second to make the connection. "Immortality," he says flatly. "You want to share in his immortality – you do know that he's obligated to go and _murder_ two innocent beings in each of their lifetimes in order to preserve himself, right?"

"A minimal cost," Druce says with a shrug. "And one that we can work on repairing once we have the time and leisure to do so. Rip, you're not seeing – "

"The bigger picture," Rip says. "As you were always telling me when I was your student. No, Druce. This time I think I'm seeing the bigger picture just fine."

Druce shakes his head sadly. "I had such hopes for you, Rip," he says ominously.

Rip crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating or angry and mostly coming off like he's trying to ward off the blow of yet another betrayal. "So what now?" he asks. " _Old friend_."

"The magnitude of what we're doing here is a lot to take in," Druce says calmly. "We'll see if you come to your senses. If not, it will be most regrettable to lose someone of your skills."

"Lose," Rip says bitterly. "You mean you'll kill me."

"Likely," Druce agrees, sounding regretful but not enough to actually stop. "Or you'll be sent to Declan for modification into a Hunter."

"Modification – good lord, you mean the Hunters are _actually_ brainwashed? I'd always thought that was some ridiculous propaganda."

"We encourage that perception," Druce says agreeably. "Now, come along."

"You expect me to just – _come along_ with you?" Rip exclaims. "When you've just told me you intend to have me killed or worse?"

"Yes, I do," Druce says. "Because if you don't, the individuals we found stowed away on the Waverider will be turned into Hunters as well."

"How do I know that's not the plan anyway?" Rip says challengingly.

"You don't," Druce says. "But I was your mentor, Rip. I know you. If there's a chance you can save them – and there is – you won't be able to resist taking it."

Rip hesitates, clearly torn.

“You can’t win, Rip,” Druce says. “You know that. What happens after this is your choice.”

“My choice,” Rip says bitterly. “My choice – just like it was the Matron’s choice, I assume?”

Druce nods as if Rip had confirmed something. “We knew you lot had to be involved in that,” he says.

“What did you do to her?” Rip demands. “And all for what? For being the mother you made her into? For trying to defend her children from – whatever it was you were hiding there?”

“A pillar,” Druce says. “The Oculus is unstable; it requires four pillars here, in the Vanishing Point, just to keep the power of the Oculus from overflowing, and several more pillars outside to anchor it in place. The Refuge was the most powerful of the pillars – the Matron’s actions in removing it are causing tremendous instability to the entire Vanishing Point. What mother takes action that puts her children’s life in danger?”

“She was trying to _protect_ us,” Rip says stubbornly. His eyes are narrow and he’s angry, and they’re alone. He takes a step forward. “And you went after her –”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Druce says, watching him calmly. “Whatever it is you’re thinking – that you can kill or incapacitate me, that you can escape – you know it’s not possible. There are guards outside the door, and an army of Hunters just beyond them, ready to attack if there's a disturbance.”

Rip falters. He knows. 

“Listen to me,” Druce says coaxingly. “I was your mentor and your friend, Rip; I was never your enemy. The least you can do is think about what I’m offering you here. And, if nothing else, I'm offering you _time_ , Rip; time to think about your choices. Time is the most precious thing we have."

"So you've always told me," Rip says heavily, and Len knows he's given in, at least for now.

The two of them head out, Rip's head bowed low and his shoulders slumped. It's not easy having someone you look up to turn out bad, Len knows from experience, but assuming that Druce is telling the truth about giving Rip some time, that only works to their favor. It gives the rest of them a chance to rescue him.

The two Time Masters are halfway back to the door when Druce says, almost off-handedly, "And what did you do with the rest of your crew? You said you dropped them back off in their own time, but I know that was a lie."

"What makes you think it was?" Rip asks.

"We've checked," Druce says bluntly. "You are capable of depressive moments which would explain your actions in yielding up your mission and returning here for punishment, but the fact that they do not actually appear to be in the right time period speaks volumes."

"Why do you care?" Rip asks.

Druce doesn't respond.

"It's Kendra, isn't it," Rip says. It's not a question this time. "You want to turn her over to Savage."

"He's our ally," Druce says. "It's incumbent upon us to make sure he gets what he needs."

"And you expect me just to turn her over to you?" Rip exclaims. "If you think I would _ever_ –"

"As I said, Rip, I know you," Druce interrupts smoothly. "If you decide to join with us, you will be reinstated to your former post, with all the attended honor and respect – and Miranda will, as well."

Rip stops, his mouth agape.

"She was forced to yield up her position as a Time Master because of your relationship," Druce says. "Our rules about attachment are very strict. But once we have the Oculus working at full capacity, well. Perhaps then we need not be so strict. Think of it, Rip: you will be a Time Master once more, but this time, you’ll have your wife and your son at your side, and the remainder of your little crew left hale and hearty – all but the one already doomed to die, who will reincarnate shortly thereafter anyway. Hardly a real loss in the long run, wouldn't you say?"

Rip's eyes are filled with longing.

"But as I said," Druce says. "You'll have time to think on it."

They go out, Rip following Druce in a daze.

Len watches them go with a grimace. That's tempting, for someone like Rip – all he ever wanted, and more that he never dared to let himself dream, no doubt. 

He'll just have to hope that the budding sense of morality Rip’s been developing underneath all that childhood miseducation and indoctrination is strong enough to stand up to his desire to return home. 

As for Len – he has other work to do.

He raises his hand to his comms. He hadn’t wanted to make the call while Rip and Druce were in the room, for fear they’d hear him; the comms _really_ need a silent mode, maybe something that translates sign language – Len’s sure he can convince either Gideon or Cisco to make something that would work just on the basis of claiming that they're discriminatory against the deaf and non-verbal – but now that they’re gone, he can –

He can’t. 

The goddamn thing’s broken. Len pulls it out of his ear to confirm, but even someone with Len’s entirely practical amount of technological knowledge can tell that the whole unit’s fried. Hell, some parts of it have fused together.

It must be some feedback from the Well.

No back-up.

Great.

It doesn’t change what Len has to do.

Guess the time puppies weren't wrong after all. This is worth all of that pain, all of that anger, all of that, to come here, to find this. To destroy this. 

Len turns back to the Well. 

It's such a horrifying thing to have as pretty a name as Oculus, and it, like Savage, cannot be permitted to remain intact now that Len is aware of its existence.

He waits until he's sure the Time Masters are gone and heads in, hoping that he's correct that there are no undetectable cameras watching over the room.

Walking closer to the Well is a horrible experience. 

Len can barely bring himself to do it; it's like his first experience with the unquiet dead as a small child, the creeping choking terror, the feeling of being scooped apart inside, but so much worse.

"Help us," a ghost chokes out at him, using her last bit of strength to do so, disappearing into a blur of white. 

"I'm trying," Len says through gritted teeth. "Oh, am I trying."

Crossing the bridge to get to the platform is, if anything, even worse.

Len stands in front of the machine the Time Masters have built, the machine called the Oculus, and tries to figure out how to destroy it.

He knows at the first touch that his half-formed ideas of blasting it with his cold gun and shattering it are unlikely to work: this machine is made of the same material as the Waverider, tough and almost invulnerable, and likely self-repairing to boot.

No, this will require another approach. 

Exactly _what_ that approach will be, Len's not so sure. Maybe it can be rigged into some sort of bomb, or set to self-destruct? But who would have the expertise in this sort of future tech to do that, much less do it secretly enough that the Time Masters wouldn't notice someone tinkering with their holiest of holies?

Maybe there's a way to do it already.

Len prods at the machine and it abruptly unfolds again, the bright beam of light shooting straight up to the ceiling once more; Len hadn't even noticed it closing up again the first time, he'd been so distracted. 

There are no images this time; Len wonders why.

Then, of course, it hits him. 

It's undoubtedly set to show him what he wants to see.

Mick?

The beam ripples and shows him Mick, walking through the grey corridors of the Vanishing Point unharmed, his face screwed in concentration as if he's looking for something, one time puppy on each side of him, tugging him onwards. 

He's okay.

He’s _okay_.

Len lets out a breath of relief at that. 

"I'm gonna get you for that one," he tells the image, which for obvious reasons doesn't respond. "I'll think of something real nasty. Or better yet, I'll get Lisa to think of something; she's the real specialist in nasty pranks – "

And then his voice trails away, because the image is changing again, a different image.

Lisa. 

Lisa, in her favorite date clothes, sitting in a chair in STAR Labs, Cisco Ramon at another next to her, showing her something on the computer, a wide, adoring smile on his face as he natters on about something. Barry is standing behind them, scarlet suit on and cowl pushed back, rolling his eyes at them with a grin.

Len is hit by a sudden, overwhelming surge of homesickness. 

"You have fun, kids," he tells them, wishing he could be there with them. “Bet whatever problem you’re facing ain’t half as bad as the one we’ve got here.”

Cisco is frowning, now, for some reason, and he's waving Lisa's questions off and trying to focus on something.

"Now, Cisco, that just ain't nice. You gotta let the girl talk if you want her to like you. And don't think I'm gonna let you dating my sister rest," Len tells Cisco's image. "I _will_ come and bust your chops over it. Just you watch me."

And then Cisco looks up and stares straight at Len.

Len rears back a step.

Cisco's saying something. There's no audio in the Oculus, but Len can read lips and the words 'Snart' and 'hear him' are featuring heavily.

"Holy crap," Len says, realizing what it must be. "Your stupid vibe powers. You can hear me!"

Now Cisco's mouth is forming other words, chief among them 'Where' and 'When'.

"Not sure," Len says honestly. "The Time Bastards call this the Vanishing Point; they say it's outside of time –"

Barry waves his hands. He's mouthing the word 'Gideon'.

Right, they have the other Gideon, old Eobard's Gideon, down in their basement.

"Yeah, Gideon might know where it is," Len says. "Good thinking. It’s –"

But Cisco has leapt to his feet, eyes wide with alarm, and he's pointing at Len.

No, not _at_ Len.

_Behind_ Len.

Len spins around just fast enough to see the Time Master holding a pulse rifle, like the ones the Hunters used, over Len's head.

He's not fast enough to avoid it coming down _on_ his head.

And then everything fades in darkness, accompanied only by the screams of the ghosts that surround them.


	48. 47

"You can at least gimme something for the headache," Len complains at the Time Master in the process of shoving him into the sadly impervious-looking cell. Or rather, having shoved him in and pushing the door closed while Len attempts, not very successfully, to resist the door shutting on him. He's not having as much luck resisting as he likes to think he normally would, but he blames that on the headache he got from being bashed over the head. Not to mention waking up very abruptly to find himself being quite literally tossed in here. "It being your fault and all."

"I don't even know what you were doing there," the Time Master replies. He sounds young under that hood that's pulled forward enough to shadow his eyes and his face. "I don't know you, but you're definitely not supposed to be at the Vanishing Point at all, much less – _there_."

"I was _there_ ," Len says, too angry to try to pretend that he's a Time Master or any other such implausible dodge, "because _there_ is an abomination that must be destroyed."

The Time Master is quiet for a long moment. Still shoving Len into the cell - damnit, the door is millimeters away from being shut, Len's not going to manage to keep it open - but quiet. 

"You think so too, don't you?" Len says, smelling advantage. He abruptly releases the door, letting the Time Master shut it; as he'd hoped, the Time Master is sufficiently surprised by Len's yielding to stand there listening instead of leaving. "You ever go inside there before, get that talking to the way Rip Hunter did?" 

The Time Master presses his lips together. 

Ah, a sore spot. 

"No, you hadn't," Len answers his own question. "And why is that, I wonder? Is Rip some sort of special favorite of the big bosses, despite his recent acts of – dare I say it – piracy?"

He pauses for a second to let the Time Master grind his teeth together, then moves in for the kill.

"Or is the problem _you_? I mean, I can see the issue –"

"What's that supposed to mean?!" the Time Master exclaims, affronted. "I'm just as good as he ever was."

Len smothers a smirk. The Time Master is now just standing right before the door to the cell, a scowl fixed firmly on his face. He's clearly intent on having this argument out with Len, rather than doing the far more intelligent thing and just locking it and going away; that gives Len more time. Time to do what, he's not quite sure, given the pounding headache he still has, but time is better than nothing.

"Of course you are," Len assures the Time Master, his voice so patently insincere that no one could possibly believe he was being anything other than condescending. The Time Master certainly bristles at it. "Just as good as the great Rip Hunter. You know, I'd say that you, ah – I'm sorry, what's your name?"

The Time Master blinks. "Uh, it's Ted. What’s yours?"

“Ray Palmer,” Len lies with a straight face. Ted reminds him a bit of Ray, actually. “Now, Ted.”

Ted – what a strange name for a Time Master – crosses his arms, but he’s still listening.

“From what I’ve observed, I’d say that you, Ted, were capable of things just as impressive as Rip Hunter –" Ted puffs up a bit. "— but that your secrecy in bringing me here suggests you weren't exactly allowed to be where you found me."

Ted flinches.

"Now that's awkward," Len says, pleased to have guessed right. "And what exactly do you plan to say, when they ask you where I was..?"

Ted looks uncertain. He must be quite young, or at least more like Ray Palmer than Len had previously suspected - he clearly feels as though he ought to tell the truth, but on the other hand it would be admitting he went somewhere where he was clearly not permitted to go. And he very, very obviously doesn’t want to admit that little fact to his superiors.

"The Time Masters have such harsh punishments for disobedience, don't they?" Len says sympathetically. 

Ted looks increasingly unsure of himself. 

Len's just starting to think he might be able to talk his way out of this one when a low-voiced laugh interrupts them both.

A _familiar_ laugh.

Now it's Len's turn to grit his teeth.

"Very clever, my little necromancer," Savage says, stepping out of the shadows. "Very clever indeed. But I already knew that about you, didn't I?"

"Murdered any innocents recently, Savage?" Len shoots back. It's not his best comeback, and Savage knows it.

"Not recently," Savage replies with a smirk. "But don't worry; I'm sure you'll be the first to know when I do. I'm _particularly_ looking forward to seeing my dear Chay-Ara once more."

"Her name is _Kendra_ ," Len says. "And isn't killing her two hundred odd times enough?'

"She must die so that I may live forever," Savage replies, clearly slightly confused by Len’s rehash of information they both already know, but just as clearly willing to go with it. Mostly out of indifference and smugness at Len's plight, but Len will take it. "You know that already."

"Doesn't mean I'm any less disgusted by your approach to immortality," Len shoots back. The plan he's working on is shitty, but it's the only one he's got now. "Tell me, if you do end up giving the Time Masters your secret of immortality, will they end up having to murder people every lifetime, too? Or is that a weakness you'll be keeping all to yourself?"

"I see you've already discovered that much about the Time Masters' plans," Savage says, sounding pleased. “Tell me, did you see their little nest?”

Len’s lips curl into a sneer. “The Well of Souls, where they’re keeping countless numbers of screaming, tortured dead? Yeah. I saw it.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Remember what I just said about all the screaming tortured dead people?” Len says in his best perky, helpful tone, which he's somewhat modeled on Ray's. He's increasingly certain that Ray sometimes exaggerates it deliberately when he feels annoyed about something. Very sneaky; Len approves. “So: no. It’s hideous.”

Savage clicks his tongue disappointedly, shaking his head. “I would have thought you of all people would be able to see the beauty in its grotesquery. All that power – all those countless armies of the dead, all right there for you to command –”

“I don’t command them,” Len points out. “I ask ‘em.”

“But they obey.”

“We mostly _quid pro quo_ it,” Len says, crossing his arms. “Unlike whatever the fuck you mediums do to ‘em.”

Savage arches his eyebrows. “We bind them into our service,” he says, sounding interested. “Do necromancers do it differently?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Len says shortly. “Not a necromancer.”

He's not going to go into nuances with Savage of all people. 

Savage snorts. “You may keep denying it if you like,” he says indulgently. “It doesn’t matter. Where you are, Chay-Ara must not be far away. I will go and find her, and then return to question you further later.”

“What makes you think I’ll answer any of your questions?” Len asks. 

Savage smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “Oh, you all talk in the end,” he says. “I assure you, I can be most – _persuasive_.”

“Torture, then,” Len says, letting the disgust he feels into his voice. “Oh, goody. My favorite. Or rather, _your_ favorite. Is that what you’re planning on doing with the dead at the Well, too? Or are you just planning on eating them the way you ate Carter’s spirit?”

“Carter?” Savage asks. “Ah – one of Prince Khufu’s incarnations?” He chuckles. “I do enjoy so ripping their spirits apart.”

“That wasn’t answering my question,” Len points out. 

“What is the answer to you?”

“I just wanna know what you’re gonna do to all those ghosts trapped in there,” Len says. “It ain’t that hard to figure out.”

Savage laughs. “Tell me how you control ghosts, necromancer, and perhaps I’ll consider telling you my plans.”

“No deal,” Len says immediately. “I know you, and that means I know enough. Whatever the nuances of your plans are, the basics always stay the same: you’re going to hurt those ghosts even more than they're already suffering just to get yourself more power than you already have, and you’re going to wait for the right moment to fuck over your brand new Time Master friends so that you can have it all to yourself, too.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Savage says, but he’s grinning. “I would never betray my – ah – trusted allies. But enough of this; I can see what you’re doing.”

“Can you really?”

“Oh, yes,” Savage says. “You’re trying to distract me so that Chay-Ara can get away or hide.” He taps the side of his head. “You forget – I can sense her presence.”

“She’s only twenty three,” Len says, confirming Savage's guess even though in reality the idea of Kendra getting away is, at best, a secondary consideration for him at this exact moment. After all, one should never correct ones’ enemies when they’re messing up. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

Savage smirks. “I’ll be sure to pass on your love.”

With that, he waves obnoxiously through the cell door and walks away.

Len watches him turn the corner, disappearing from view, and then counts – one, two, three, four –

The cell door slides right back open.

“Did you mean that?” Ted asks from where he's clutching at the cell door frame, looking concerned.

“What part of it?” Len asks, forcing himself not to smile; he knew playing to his surprisingly sympathetic audience would pay off. It helps that he still has that headache, and probably looks it. “The part where he’s an immortal murderer who enjoys torture? The part where he’s teamed up with your bosses to exploit the agony of uncountable numbers of ghosts? The part where he’s more than likely to turn on them the first second he can?”

“Uh,” Ted says.

Len takes pity on him. “I meant all of it,” he clarifies. “He’s bad news.”

“But if Master Druce and Master Declan agree with him…”

“Just following orders is no excuse,” Len says. “And I'm sure you know that.”

Ted looks honestly upset by now. His hood's fallen back, and it's clear that Len's guess was right: he’s very young – as young as Jax, maybe. Maybe even younger. 

That gives Len an idea. 

“Hey, you know the Last Refuge, I think they called it?”

Ted’s forehead wrinkles. “…yeah?” 

“The Matron there just got taken in for standing up to them. She wanted to protect her kids from the very dangerous thing your bosses were keeping on the grounds.”

“They wouldn’t!”

Len stares at the kid.

Ted wilts.

He knows they would. 

“But – what can I do about it?” Ted asks, biting his lip and looking stressed out.

“Let me go,” Len suggests. “Then get out of here. Go do something else. _Anything_ else.”

“But – if they find out – and they always find out -”

“Don’t worry,” a female voice says. “They’ll understand that you were overpowered.”

“What –” Ted starts to say, turning, and that’s when Sveltana brings one of those horrible vases from the corridor down on his head.

Len exhales a long sigh of relief and steps out of the cell, edging his way over Ted’s unconscious body. “I nearly had ‘em, you know,” he tells Sveltana. 

“You very nearly did, _Grazhdanin_ Snart,” Sveltana says approvingly. “He will undoubtedly awaken still convinced of your argument, however, and we still need to rescue our comrades, so it seemed best not to wait.”

“I like you,” Len tells her sincerely. “I like you a lot. And you're right, we need to find everyone else.”

He rubs at his head, which is still sore, but pounding less.

Svetlana crouches down and pulls something out of Ted’s pocket. “For you, I believe,” she says.

Len blinks at the clearly recognizable bottle of aspirin.

“He asked the computer for something to help your head,” Svetlana clarifies. “While he was trying to ignore your argument with Savage.”

Len blinks again, then shrugs and swallows the pills. Cute kid. Len hopes things turn out all right for him. There’s no guaranteeing it, of course, but sometimes you’ve got to hope for the best.

“Let’s go rescue the others,” he says. 

They leave Ted inside the cell, but they do leave him the aspirin. 

Also, the cell door’s still a little open. If Len ends up destroying the entirety of the Vanishing Point, he doesn’t want the kid to get stuck in the cells and unable to get out. 

Svetlana managed to avoid making any comments about Len’s sentimentality, but she smirked obnoxiously the whole time. 

It’s not _Len’s_ fault the kid’s so young Mick might have moral issues letting him into the Junior Rogues. This is very literally the least he can do, so Svetlana can stop smirking _any time now_ , thanks. 

Leading Svetlana to the other ghosts isn’t a problem; identical grey walls and floors or no, Len knows how to retrace his steps to where they were being kept. 

“How do we open the doors?” Svetlana asks, pressing her hand against the glass of Parvati’s cell, Parvati mirroring the movement on the other side.

“That’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m thinking about is _alarms_ ," Len replies. "And what'll happen to our friends if we don't warn them in time. My comm’s broken."

Svetlana nods. "But we must try, no?"

"Yeah," Len says. "Guess we roll the dice. Keep an eye out to see if anyone's coming, in case there's a silent alarm. If it's a not-silent alarm...well, we'll know pretty quick."

And he gets to work.

Compared to the high tech locks Len's used to, these cell doors are nothing. 

He opens Parvati's door first, and she and Svetlana fall into each other's arms. They're all tense for the first few seconds, waiting to see if there will be alarms, but there's nothing.

"It's strange being so solid," Len hears Parvarti whisper as he turns to Miko's cell. "I do not know if I like it."

"I could get used to it," Svetlana replies, more than a hint of laughter in her voice.

Parvati squeaks and Len has to press together his lips to avoid laughing when he hears the distinct sound of a slap, albeit a light and playful one.

Whatever just happened behind his back makes Miko smile, at least.

The other cells open just as easily as Parvati's. That being said, Len distrusts things being easy, and he's almost not surprised when, just as he release Jack – the last one to get out – alarms start blaring. 

"Is it because of us?" Miko asks, alarmed.

"No, worse," Len says, his mood immediately dashed. "See, if it'd been us, it'd have gone off when I opened Parvati's. The alarms mean something else has gone wrong."

And him without a working comm to warn or check in on anybody.

Normally this is when Len would shout for Mick, but he’s pretty sure there’s no point. 

“ _Grazhdanin_ Snart?” Svetlana asks. “What now?”

"We need to check in on the rest of the crew, but we can’t let that get away from our objective, which is destroying the Well of Souls,” Len decides. “When I was eavesdropping, Druce said something about there being four pillars stabilizing the Well –”

"A Well of Souls?” Parvati asks. “Is that what is keeping us here? And solid?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “You’re stuck here, then?”

Parvati nods. “Jack tried to escape the guards through the walls, but it didn’t work, and then he tried down the hallway, but that didn’t work, either. He had to struggle hard to go back the way we came; it took so much energy that they caught up with him easily. Like walking through water.” 

“Or away from a magnet,” Ahmed says. 

“Damn. Okay,” Len rubs his eyes. “Okay. So the Well acts like the gravitational pull like a black hole, only for ghosts, got it. Okay. So: yes, it’s a Well of Souls, and it traps ghosts, so before anything else, no matter what you do, you've _got_ to avoid going anywhere near the building beyond the park or else you won’t be able to escape the pull of it. In the meantime, we have to find the four stabilizing pillars that are somewhere in this place, and we need to destroy ‘em.”

“I enjoy destroying things,” Miko volunteers shyly.

“Remember that you’re _solid_ here, okay?” Len tells them, concerned, unable to keep from thinking of Mick. “I don’t know what that does to your pain level –”

“Increased somewhat,” Ahmed says. “More sensation, more pain, but it is not unbearable. And also, for all that we are solid, we are still dead.”

“What’s dead can’t be killed,” Jack reminds Len. “We’ll be fine. Ahmed and I’ll go –" He frowns, realizing that directions don't really apply on a circular space station with artificial gravity. "We'll go nine o'clock from here, Parvati and Miko three o'clock, Svetlana down six o'clock, and you head on back to twelve o'clock, the way we came, and we’ll search for anything that makes us uneasy. We will avoid the place you mentioned.” 

What Jack called twelve o'clock is where Len came from, where at the very least Jax and Stein ought to be; if he can get back to them, he’ll have access to comms again. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Keep an eye out for the others if you have a chance.”

They each head off their own way.

Len’s still in the stupid Time Master robes, so he flips the cowl back up to cover his head, pulls the hood forward to hide his face the way Ted had, and walks as purposefully as he can; no one pays him any attention. A surprising number of people aren’t paying attention to the alarms at all, actually; they just keep going about their business.

Either alarms are more common than Len’d thought or, more likely, they’ve been trained not to pay attention to things happening around them. Because then they might see things they might want to stop...

Really, Len likes this place less and less.

Unfortunately, he’s only about halfway back to the ship when a squadron of Hunters come marching through the hallways, guns out and ready, Time Masters scattering (with dignity) in their path. 

Some Time Master tugs on Len’s sleeve. “This way,” she hisses.

Breaking her hold and running would undoubtedly give him away, so Len reluctantly follows her into a small office.

She shuts the door behind him, hitting the panel on the door in sequence – up down, up down – and Len can hear the lock engaging. “I hate it when they do this,” she says, peering through the window. “Employing the Hunters is bad enough, but must they come in here like an invading Roman legion any time they please?”

“It’s very Nazi-like,” Len agrees, not betraying his dissatisfaction with the word ‘employing’. In fairness, Rip’s statement from earlier suggested that he honestly didn’t know about the brainwashing, but Len’s seen the Hunters' quarters and their vacant gazes. As far as he's concerned, anyone who doesn’t know is being willfully blind.

He also doesn’t like being locked in.

“Nazi? Ah, yes, 1930s, 1940s. Another apt comparison,” the woman says, pushing back her hood. She’s around Len’s age, a short, rotund redhead – though the term was never so inapposite as it is for her carrot-orange hair. “I’m Kristin Wells.”

“Wells?” Len asks, frowning. “Like – Harrison Wells?”

“The one from the late 20th century? I’m from a cadet line if the branch, but yes, we’re related. I’m an Olsen descendant too, just for giggles. And you?”

“Carter Hall,” Len says. He pushes back his hood, but she doesn’t seem to recognize him. “No interesting relations.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Carter-no-interesting-relations-Hall,” she says, then turns to look out the window again. “Ugh, I think we might be stuck here for a while.”

“What makes you say that?” Len asks. 

“These ridiculous sweeps always take forever,” Kristin says with a sigh. “If we’re lucky, they’ll locate the problem and summon all the Hunters back and then we can get along our business.”

“Ain’t you curious as to what they’re looking for?” Len asks, starting to prowl the room. He doesn’t like being stuck. Worse case, he’ll have to knock Kristin out...

“What’s the point? They’re never going to tell us,” she says, making a face. “Are you new here? Your accent is strange.”

“Lost my memory in a freak accident,” Len lies. 

“Huh,” Kristin says. “That’s most unfortunate. Was it, ah, deliberate?”

Len looks at her.

“On the part of your handler,” she clarifies. “Or your pre-memory-loss self. Such things happen, sometimes. It's not really talked about.”

“…I'm not sure,” Len says slowly. “Should _you_ be talking about this?”

“Almost certainly not,” she says cheerfully. “But there’s no cameras in here, so the handlers can go off and be hanged for all I care.”

Len snorts in amusement. Nice to know the Time Masters aren’t _all_ humorless drones. 

It occurs to him that Kristin, who seems somewhat self-aware, might be able to tell him more about the four pillars. 

Len considers the merits of just asking straight out, but decides against it. With the Hunters marching right outside the door, it’s not worth the risk. No, if he wants to get answers out of her, he’s going to have to be subtle.

Len can do subtle. 

He casts around the room, looking for something he can use as a conversation starter, and something catches his eye. It’s a calendar.

He's immediately reminded of the conversation with the Matron about the way calendars work in the Refuge, and also in the Vanishing Point.

“Huh,” he says, and makes his way over to look at it.

“Ah, yes, the stupid never-moving calendars,” Kristin says, so she clearly knows all about them. “I hate them. It’s so bizarre – you try to mark a day forward, a day back, even a month ahead, and you just _know_ you’re wrong. I thought calendars were things people just made up and applied arbitrarily, you know? But it doesn’t seem to matter what calendar you use, we’re still stuck. It moves around sometimes, different dates, different days of the week, but it’s always that day. And there's no accounting for when they move, either!”

Yep, just like the Matron had said. This calendar is marked to a date ten days after the Matron’s calendar, and Kristin is right, even _thinking_ about the date in the Last Refuge felt distinctly off and incorrect. 

“You know,” Len says nonchalantly, still studying the calendar as if that’s what’s really got his attention, “I got this weird new assignment that’s got me stumped.”

“Oh?” Kristin says. 

“Yeah; I don’t know why they gave it to me, what with my memory issues,” Len says, idly trying to flip one of the pages of the calendar to see what the other images are, only to shudder and quickly flip it back. It feels too wrong to even think about other months. “You know that place out back by the park?”

“The temple? Sure,” Kristin says. “No one’s allowed to go anywhere near it without permission, and barely anyone gets permission. What about it?”

“Well, it’s apparently connected to four energy sources located around the Vanishing Point,” Len says. “Any idea where those might be?”

“Energy sources,” Kristin says. “Huh. They supposed to be equidistant from it or something?”

“Helpfully,” Len drawls, “nobody said.”

Kristin snorts. “Yeah, that’s the bosses all over for you, innit? Energy sources, energy sources, energy sources...let me think...”

“Anywhere that might’ve gone weird in the last day or two,” Len offers. “Apparently they’re destabilized or something.”

“They were reporting some power fluctuations by the trial chamber,” Kristin says thoughtfully. “And I thought I heard of something going on by the Hunters’ quarters, but no one ever goes there to check out anything other than the Hunters and _their_ handlers.”

“Maybe someone should,” Len mutters.

“What’s that?”

“That’s real helpful,” Len says, louder. “Thanks.”

Kristin nods. “Sorry I can’t be of more use,” she says apologetically. “Best of luck with your job – oh, hey, look! The Hunters are by; we can probably go now.”

“Thought you said that’d take longer,” Len says.

“I _also_ said that they might summon them all to go somewhere if they’ve found the problem,” Kristin points out. “Anyhow, I’ve got to be off on my own mission.”

“Heading out?” Len asks casually.

“Yeah,” Kristin says. “Captain Eve Baxter needs some back-up; apparently a job went wrong or something? That, or she’s caught a case of time pirate-ness, which would just be…weird. She’s one of the best pilots out there, so, you know. Not impossible, but weird. Either way, I’m heading out in a few hours to get her.”

“You should go now,” Len says. 

Kristin blinks at him. “Why?”

“Just a feeling,” Len lies. She seems nice; no reason for her to be used as cannon fodder the way Len has the distinct sinking feeling she would be. “And maybe go on radio silence, yeah?”

Kristin frowns at him for a long moment, Len meeting her eyes calmly.

“You know what,” she finally says. “I think – I think I’ll do that. Thanks.”

Len smiles.

“Good luck with whatever you’re up to,” she adds. “But if the Masters catch you, for the love of the timeline don’t say I had anything to do with it!”

Len widens his eyes. “Who?”

“Good man,” she says with a grin, and bustles out of there. The unlocking mechanism is the same – up-down, up-down. 

Len sincerely hopes that she’s not a spy. If she's not, he wishes her the best. 

Then, the second she's gone, he continues hurrying the way he was going. 

Power fluctuations by the Hunters' quarters, Kristin said; that's where Len left Jax and Stein.

He just hopes they're okay now that the Hunters have been activated –

Len turns the corner and comes to a sudden stop.

Jax, in full Firestorm regalia, is hovering above a crowded corridor with tall ceilings, throwing fireballs into the warring crowd below.

And it _is_ a warring crowd – Hunter clashes with Hunter, eerie faceless mask against eerie faceless mask, pulse rifles being shot out of hands by other pulse rifles, gauntlet fists ringing out as they strike against armored breastplates.

"What the fuck?" Len says blankly.

Firestorm notices him and flies over, landing hard. "Hey, boss," he says. 

"They're fighting each other," Len points out.

"Yep," Firestorm replies. "Me and Grey, we worked out how to knock some of the brainwashing loose – not all of it, we couldn't do shit about the trauma or brain damage, but we figured out that what they were doing was imposing heavy duty temporal drift on them. Disconnecting them from their own timelines."

"That sounds bad."

"The same thing happens to Time Masters that haven't visited their own time period for a while," Firestorm says. "In smaller quantities, though. They start getting sociopathic, if not full on psychopathic. It's bad. With the Hunters, they connect them to this – this chair, boss, it's so bad, it's like a dentist's chair crossed with an electric chair with a heavy dose of scifi horror going on –"

That _definitely_ sounds bad.

"– and anyway the chair hits 'em with electro-shock and a massive dose of temporal energy at the same time. Most of 'em are lucky to get out alive at all."

"And the rest get seen as unfortunate casualties of the process?"

"Got it in one, boss. We managed to rescue one guy out of the chair itself – a Hunter named Kronos, whose real name is something Todd - he couldn't remember his first name, but he says that's pretty usual and he'll get it back later; he's a bounty hunter here, except he's resistant to the process so they put him in again and again – and he told us about it, how the chair makes 'em all into mindless goats, and he took us to the guy who runs the process – name of Declan – "

Firestorm trails off.

"And he murdered the living shit out of him?" Len asks.

"Well, yeah."

"Seems fair to me," Len says firmly, which gets Firestorm to relax a bit. Jax was probably worried that Len would complain he hadn't done enough to try to save the guy.

Really, one of these days Len's gonna have to explain how new the whole 'no killing' rule is...

"You seem to have everything under control here," Len says. "Can I borrow a comm? Mine broke, and I've got updates."

"Sure, boss – " Firestorm says, and splits apart. 

"– you're welcome to mine, Mr. Snart," Stein concludes, popping it out of his ear.

"Handy," Len says, taking it and activating it. "Guys? We're off radio silence."

"You bet your ass we are," Sara reports. "Where've you _been_?"

"I found the problem," Len says. "It's – you know what, let's not even go there. The Time Masters call it the Oculus, it tortures ghosts for power."

"Shit," Firestorm says, joining back up.

"Good news," Len continues, "us knocking the Refuge out has destabilized it. Bad news, it's got four pillars supporting it, located somewhere in the Vanishing Point, and we gotta knock those out before we can destroy it."

"Got it," Ray says.

That reminds Len. "More bad news – Savage is here, and he's hunting for Kendra. Kendra, you there with Ray?"

"Yeah, we're both – Ray! Duck!"

A loud crackle of noise.

"Kendra!" Sara shouts.

No response.

"Ray, answer if you can," Len snaps.

Nothing.

"Damnit," Sara says. "Who's in their area? Hex and I have our hands full trying to rescue Rip from their stupid trial chamber."

"I don't know if I can leave," Firestorm says. "I promised the Hunters I'd stay by and help out –"

"I'll go," Len says. "Jax, Stein – someone said that there were power fluctuations in this area. That might be the pillar they were talking about, probably an energy source of some sort. Check with the Hunters that are on our side now; they might know. Sara, you and Hex keep an eye out while you go after Rip; the trial chamber is the other source of power readings I've heard about."

"We're on it," Sara says.

"You got it, boss," Firestorm says.

Len turns and runs down the hallway towards where Ray, Kendra and Carter had gone. 

He just hopes he's not too late.

"Mick, if you're on comms," he says as he runs. "Now'd be a great time to tell me what the hell you're up to."

No response, but then, Len wasn't expecting one. 

"Gideon – any chance you could –"

"I'm afraid I'm unable to assist right now, Mr. Snart," Gideon says apologetically. "I am currently engaged in battle with several other AIs."

"You – do that," Len says. He doesn't want to know.

He'll just have to hope for the best.

He runs as fast as he can, pulling his gun out as he goes. It's not that Ray's not formidable, he can be, and Kendra's learned so much about fighting, but Savage is Kendra's worst nightmare come alive and, once he sees her terror, Ray would fall into his worst habits of chivalrous heroism, and Savage would already know from Carters of lives past how to exploit that; of this Len has no doubt.

And if Savage succeeds, if he kills Kendra here, so close to the Well of Souls, well...Len doesn't know exactly _what_ will happen, but he's almost entirely sure he won't like it.

If he doesn't get there in time –

"Ray!" he hears Kendra shriek from the corridor not too far ahead, followed by a harsh thud.

Len tries to speed up, but his legs are burning, his lungs are clenching, his breath is short, and he can't move any faster; if anything, he's only not slowing through sheer force of will. He's in good shape, but he's been doing a lot of running...

"My beautiful Chay-Ara," he hears Savage laugh. "Looks like this is goodbye, yet again. You should have agreed to join –"

Len turns the corner and aims his gun -

Something comes down on his arm; one of those goddamn hideous vases, smashing into a dozen ugly, heavy pieces and Len gasps in pain and goes down to his knees, clutching at his arm as it spasms in agony. He sees Druce's smug face, curled up into that snarl of an addict's devotion, standing above him. 

Beyond him, he sees Ray, full sized, crumpled in the corner and trying to dig a knife out of the center of his sparking, glitching suit, calling Kendra's name in desperation.

He sees Kendra on the floor in front of Savage, scrambling to grab the dagger that will kill him, but Savage pulls it out of her grasp and hoists it high above her.

Preparation for a killing blow.

That horrible spirit within him detaches from his frame, rising above her, even more hideous and monstrous than last time, reaching for her.

"Goodbye," Savage says with a smile, "my love."

And he brings the dagger down.

A hand catches it.

Savage's head snaps up in shock.

Carter stands before him, lips tightly pressed together, muscles straining. Solid and whole, the reincarnated man stands between his lover and her would-be murderer.

"You!" Savage says, recovering his poise. "I should have known. Where you find one of you, you can always find the other."

Carter says nothing.

"I will enjoy killing you first," Savage pants, straining to pull the dagger away from Carter in their silent tug of war. "In front of Chay-Ara, just as I always do. You'll die screaming at my hand –"

Carter says nothing.

Len tries to struggle to his feet, but Druce's hand falls heavy on his shoulder, pushing him down. "You will not interrupt," he hisses.

Of _course_ Druce wants Kendra to die here, so close to the Well; he probably knows what happens to people who die in the Vanishing Point. He's probably ordered their deaths. 

He's almost certainly set this up deliberately.

Kendra will probably be captured in that horrible Well, her ghost trapped, unable to reincarnate, and that means that Savage will have no choice but to help the Time Masters. It’s not a bad plan, actually; the only problem is that to think of and then enact it, you have to be a monster.

Suddenly, there's movement.

Savage has dropped the dagger, releasing it abruptly in a single fluid motion and pulling another knife from his jacket, lunging forward with it. He catches Carter by the shoulder and jabs the knife into his abdomen. 

"Carter!" Kendra screams. Ray screams with her.

"You fool," Savage says triumphantly. "Only the dagger can kill me, but you can...be..."

He trails off as Carter pulls back and straightens up again. Carter reaches for his midsection and pulls the knife out, tossing it to the floor in a clatter.

He's not even bleeding.

"How?" Savage asks, his eyes fixed on Carter's stomach. "How is this possible?"

"You killed me once already in this life," Carter says, his voice harsh and rusty, unused for a long while. He bares his teeth in what is not a smile. "But what is already dead cannot die."

Len's eyes go wide.

Of course.

It all comes together:

Svetlana and her ghostly crew, touching the suddenly solid skin in surprise. 

Mick's old habit of throwing himself into fights or executions where someone would kill him, and only sometimes bothering to pretend to bleed.

Carter's reincarnated shade, waiting patiently by Kendra's feet for a chance to live again. 

What is dead cannot die.

This isn't Carter's _reincarnation_. This is Carter's _ghost_ , rebuilt to full strength over the last few weeks, kept near Kendra by his reincarnation, strengthened by Len's life, and finally solidified by the power of the Well of Souls.

And Savage can do nothing against him.

Savage –

Panics.

There's no other word for it; the immortal killer losing his cool at the sight of the one person he _must_ kill no longer being capable of death. He charges forward, attacking, but while Carter is still no match for him, he doesn't even pretend to die whenever Savage strikes a deathblow. 

Movement, again.

Ray is on his knees, dragging himself to Kendra's side. "Kendra," he says.

"Ray," she sobs. 

"Kendra, it has to be you," Ray says gently. "You know it has to be you. We're here for you – but it has to be you."

The pressure on Len's shoulder disappears as Druce releases his grip, stepping forward, snarl still on his lips. “No,” the Time Master says, his willingness to stand away and let events fall where they will evaporating as soon as the man he needs for his Oculus is in danger. “No, you don’t –”

He reaches into his robes and pulls out a small gun and takes aim –

And Len tackles his knees, the arm that got bashed by the vase hanging uselessly at his side and all.

“No!” Druce shouts as Len uses his good hand to throw the gun out of reach as they grapple with each other, Len using knees and elbows and thumbs and teeth to try to fight off the other man. “ _No_! Don't you dare - my plans..!”

As Len and Druce roll over each other, struggling, Len sees Kendra stand. 

He sees Carter throw her the dagger, sees her catch it, sees her wings come out.

“No!” Druce roars one more time. 

Kendra moves forward smoothly and catches Savage by the shoulder, spinning him and punching him in the face. He staggers back, shocked, and Carter catches his arms, bracing them against himself, holding him in a lock.

“Goodbye,” Kendra says, eyes alight with hatred, the dagger glowing in her hand, “my love.”

She slams it into his chest.

It’s a pretty terrible blow, as far as knife-fighting technique goes, but she got the most important idea down: the sharp pointy end goes into the bad guy. 

Savage screams. 

He clutches at his chest, staggering back, and that horrible bloated spirit within him, above him, glutted on two hundred lifetimes and more, bursts like a rotten tomato, a thousand pieces of ghost screaming as they’re pulled deeper into the Vanishing Point, towards the Well of Souls Savage was so enthusiastic about exploiting.

“Looks like you’re out of luck,” Len snarls at Druce. 

Druce gets a hand free and punches Len in the face, Len barely turning in time to take it on the hard part of his cheekbone instead of his nose. “You fool,” Druce spits. “You really think you’ve won? I have all of time to go get another version of him!”

And suddenly Druce is on top of Len, his hands around Len’s neck, throttling him with an addict’s impossible strength. “It’s your fault,” Druce hisses at Len as he chokes and scrabbles at the Time Master’s hands. “Your fault! I abhor paradox, but if that’s what is called for, then so be it! The Oculus _will_ become fully active!”

Len’s starting to black out for lack of air. Druce is being quiet about it, and Kendra and Carter and Ray are huddled together over Savage’s body; they haven’t noticed Druce's assault yet. 

“And there is _nothing_ ,” Druce whispers savagely to Len, “that you or your stupid friends can do about –”

“Get your hands off of my partner!” a blessedly familiar voice roars.


	49. 48

Druce goes flying across the room.

“Mick!” Len croaks, looking up at his incandescently angry partner. 

Right now, Len’s not even still angry about Mick’s disappearance. Mick looks a bit wrecked, his eyes red and his clothing mussed up, and there’s at least a half-dozen time wraiths floating patiently behind him. 

Druce picks himself up, snarling at Mick, who takes another step towards him, not cowed in the slightest, and Druce turns and runs down the hallway he’s next to.

“Uh. Should we go get him?” Ray asks from where he and Kendra and Carter are still clutching each other. 

Looks like they _finally_ noticed what was going on. 

“Let him run,” Mick says dismissively, then turn to crouch next to Len and help him sit up. 

Len rubs at his throat. He’s going to have bruising there later. “Heya, Mick,” he says. “Where’ve you been?”

Mick has the presence of mind to look embarrassed. “The time puppies ambushed me,” he says. “Dragged me off.” He glares at them. 

They don’t look even _slightly_ embarrassed. 

“You came back when I needed you,” Len says firmly, because that’s what matters. He holds up his hands and lets Mick pull him up. “Do you have your comms? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah,” Mick says. “They’re called pillars, the thing that’s keeping this place together. Energy sources. The time puppies were showing me where they were. I destroyed one of ‘em.”

“You did? That’s good. Sara and Hex are going after Rip and the one next to where he is; Jax and Stein are going after the one in the Hunters' –”

“There’s one more at the other end of the station,” Mick says. “I ran into Sveltana and her crew; gathered them up and sent them after that one. But they’re having some trouble getting through – there’s a group of Time Masters attacking Gideon and the Waverider with their ships, trying to bring down her shields, and it’s making such a big commotion that they’re going really slow just trying to make their way through it.”

“We can go help with that,” Kendra says, stepping forward, one hand clenched around Ray’s, the other’s around Carter. “We have to save the Waverider - and we probably need to destroy those ships.” She shakes her head. “If any of the Time Masters’ leadership remains intact, they’ll find a past version of Savage, and they’ll bring him back to try again. We _can’t_ let that happen.”

“Not to mention, Gideon’s been a crew member this whole time, too,” Ray adds. 

“Good,” Len says. “You guys go deal with that. Mick – a word?”

The trio glance at Savage’s body.

“Here,” Mick grunts. “Let me.” He pulls out his heat gun.

“Yes, please,” Kendra says, and they all watch Savage’s body crisp and melt under the full power of Mick’s gun. 

The second it’s gone, Kendra takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, like several thousand years of weight have just fallen off her shoulders. 

“Okay,” she says, and nods to herself, squaring her shoulders to go into battle once more - but lighter, this time, since it's not her own personal nightmare she's facing anymore. “Okay. C’mon, boys, let’s go kick some Time Master ass and make sure these bastards get what they deserve.”

“They’re not all bad,” Len reminds her, because she has that death-to-those-who-dare-challenge-the-crazy-hawk-goddess look in her eyes. “Just brainwashed, most of ‘em. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t kick some serious ass, though.”

That gets a small smile from her, though it quickly fades into a look of determination. “Let’s go,” she says again, and sails off towards the docking bay, Ray and Carter close behind, adoration in their eyes. 

Mick looks at Len, who sighs and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Mick immediately softens out of his combative stance. "This whole thing's kicking your ass, huh?"

"I'm tired," Len tells him, smiling a little when Mick bumps their shoulders together companionably, Mick's preferred method of showing affection in dangerous situations. "It's just a lot of bad following bad following bad, y'now?"

"No kidding," Mick agrees, unusually solemn.

"At least we have an idea of what it’s all about, now," Len says. 

"Yeah." 

“We need to destroy the Well."

“Yeah,” Mick says, and swallows. “I know.”

"It's an abomination, Mick – it's – it's _hurting_ people. Ghosts. They're screaming. Mick, it's _so bad_."

"The time puppies have told me as much," Mick says. "They want me – want _us_ – to fix it. And we've got to fix it by whatever means necessary."

"Yeah, well. Your time puppies give you any ideas as to _how_? I know we need to hit the pillars first, get them out of the way, but the actual machine itself looked pretty damn stable to me."

"We gotta to destabilize the machine that they're using to contain the Well from the inside," Mick says. "From the outside it's all but impermeable, I think; it was designed to resist any tampering. I think –" He swallows again. "I think if we shake it apart, the whole thing will blow."

"The whole machine?" Len asks, trying to calculate damage radius. There's that park, of course, but the Vanishing Point's pretty small and Len's not sure what type of explosive force they're looking at –

"No," Mick says. "The whole place. The Vanishing Point."

"Wait, _what_?"

"This isn't a real place," Mick says, glancing at the time wraiths hovering quietly around them as if for silent confirmation of what they must have told him. "It's outside of time, like the Refuge was. That's their problem with it, the time puppies; time itself is getting fucked up by this place, by this Well, and it's driving them nuts. The Well's a natural phenomenon, a sort of side effect of ghosts on the timestream, but it's something that has to be emptied on a regular basis to keep it from becoming monstrous the way it is now. The Time Masters were supposed to take care of it and make sure time kept flowing free, instead of getting clogged up with ghosts, but they didn't. They decided to use it, instead, and they made it so much worse." 

"I could tell," Len says. "No good project starts with 'and then we use the insane angel to power the thing'."

Mick snorts. "No kidding. But by now, they've locked up so much power in there that destroying their Oculus machine will destroy every living being in this area. It'll be like a nuke going off, but a nuke with a blast that only hits flesh. The explosion will cleanse the Well and free all of its ghosts, and then it'll be free to start trapping them all over again until the next cleanse, but doing that means anything solid and sentient anywhere in the nearby vicinity outside is gonna get wiped out of existence so fast they won't even have a chance to leave a ghost behind."

"A nuke that only hits flesh," Len repeats. "That's...horrifying. Why not buildings?"

"Because it ain't really a bomb, it's a – I dunno how you'd call it. When the Well gets cleansed, all of the unquiet dead go out of it at once – and they’re _all_ unquiet dead in there, boss, they can’t help it, their pain is just too great for them to be anything but – and they take every last bit of life they can find, human, animal, plant, ghost, _muscle_. Hell, even the cockroaches and bacteria won't make it." 

"That sure is thorough," Len says, making a face. Unquiet dead; it always comes back to them in the end, it seems. "Though if I got stuck in that Well for any amount of time, I sure as hell would be unquiet, too."

"That's the problem," Mick says, unsmiling. 

"There's a lot of people here, Mick," Len says, thinking of Ted, thinking of Kristin. "Not just our crew; Time Masters and Hunters and, hell, there's probably some time pirates stuck in cells somewhere. They ain't all bad, and they don't deserve to die like that."

"The ghosts don't deserve to be trapped, either," Mick points out.

"I don't disagree. The Well has to be – cleansed, you called it? The Oculus has got to be destroyed. But we've got a bit of time –"

"In a place where, strictly speaking, time doesn't really move? That's why it's always the same day, you know."

Len rolls his eyes at Mick. "We can't destroy the Oculus until the pillars have blown, right? So we've got until then to try to get people out of here. A broadcast system, some way to warn them –"

"Do you think they'll listen?"

"We've gotta try."

Mick sighs, but nods. "And once we've done that –"

"Once we've done that, we'll go after the Oculus," Len promises. 

He's lying, of course.

Not about the Oculus and it needing destruction, of course. But about the 'we' part of it. There is no way he's letting Mick – who might forget it sometimes, just because of the sheer amount of life he shares with Len, but he is still a _ghost_ , and capable of being trapped by things that trap ghosts – anywhere near the Well of Souls.

If he goes too close to the Well, he might get trapped in there, and as far as Len's concerned, that's _not_ happening. 

"Yeah," Mick says slowly. "Okay. Let's find a way to do that, then. Warn 'em all, give 'em a chance to get out..."

They start heading down a corridor that Len picks at random, but they don't make it ten feet before there's a loud noise and bright light coming from the room they just left.

They both spin around and look at each other in alarm. 

"Bomb?" Len asks.

"Some other fucked up Time Master thing?" Mick replies, which is definitely a valid concern.

They run back, only to find –

"Cisco?!" Mick exclaims.

"Scarlet?!" Len exclaims.

"Uh," Barry says, picking himself up from the Cisco-vibe-created hole in space he just tripped out of. "Hi, guys? Oh, hey, Len! You're okay! We were worried."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mick asks, gaping.

"I think I called 'em," Len says.

Mick gives Len a very pointed look.

"On the Oculus," Len says, shrugging helplessly. He hadn't realized! "I didn't realized it'd actually connect with Cisco's weird power set or anything!"

"Yeah, well, it cut off when that guy in the creepy robe get-up got the drop on you," Cisco says, pulling off his goggles. "You okay?"

"Naturally," Len drawls, but his brain's already taking this new development into account. "Cisco, we need you at the docking bay with all the ships. We're about to blow up this place, and everyone needs to get out."

He pauses.

"Well, not everyone," he admits. "The leadership is as rotten as you can get. But everyone else has a bad case of brainwashing, either through childhood ed or through _actual_ brainwashing, and if we can avoid killing 'em, I'd prefer it. Barry –"

"I can run through and take people to the ships," Barry says, nodding. "I mean, I guess I can ask first if they want to stay when this whole place blows – if it seems like they're being forced or like they have no choice in it, I'll take them anyway."

"That solves that problem," Mick says.

"One of 'em, anyway. Barry, knock them al out after you chat and before you run them to the ships," Len advises. "We're still fighting for control of the dockyards as is; we don't want to give 'em any more manpower."

"Fair enough," Cisco says. "I can probably disrupt the other AIs long enough to make them not get in the way – maybe even convince them to take the unconscious bodies out of here to protect them."

"Good man," Len says. "Gideon, the AI on the Waverider, said she was fighting them right now; she can probably use your help."

"Okay," Cisco says firmly, nodding. Then – "Uh, where is the..?"

"I'll take you," Barry assures Cisco even as Mick points down one hallway, rolling his eyes. Len's glad Mick knows, because he's getting increasingly disoriented by the layout of this place and keeping track of what everyone's doing.

He raises a hand to his comms. "Kendra, Ray – Carter, Gideon – you heard that, right? I'm sending super-speeded help your way. We need to start evac _now_ , everyone."

"Got it, boss," Kendra says, her voice warm and amused. When did she start calling him 'boss'?

"Same here, boss," Firestorm chimes in. "The Hunters on our side say they know of a good place to put them all afterwards – apparently there's some colony of ex-time travelers who weren't bad enough to kill or brainwash but who got their own little city and country to spend time thinking about what they've done."

"Sounds fine to me, as long as it ain't here," Len says, and clicks off the comms. "Lisa ain't here, is she?"

"No, we left the girls to protect Central," Cisco says. "She nearly bit Barry's head off about it, though!"

"That's my girl," Len comments with a smirk. "Oh, and Cisco?"

Cisco looks at him.

"We're gonna have to chat about you two dating, you and me."

Cisco squeaks.

"Stop scaring him," Barry lectures mildly, before turning into a blur and zipping off, Cisco with him.

"Hey, boss," Firestorm says through the link. "We've found and destroyed our pillar. No one was quite sure _how_ to do it, but turns out aiming an overwhelming amount of Hunter-related firepower at it for a sustained period of time works pretty well."

Len nods, tapping it back on. "Good. Two down."

"We're near ours," Sara pipes up. 

"We need to go," Mick says. " _They_ need to go. Once they're all destabilized, we'll have a window of opportunity to destroy the Oculus, and we'll have to take it."

"Good point. Jax, Stein – get your Hunters outta here. Sara –"

"Once the pillar is gone, we'll head back to the Waverider. We've got Rip with us."

"You do that. Mick and I are on the way to the blow point."

Len clicks off again. 

"Follow me," Mick says. "We don't want to go through that park again; the Time Masters will have rigged it with traps by now."

"Lovely," Len grumbles, but he follows Mick. Mick holds out his hands to the time puppies, who latch on immediately and start tugging him forward.

Len glares at them. A few of them have the wherewithal to look a bit sheepish, but only a few. 

There's more of them, now.

"What's your interest in all this?" Len asks one of them.

"Time puppies belong to the Speed Force," Mick replies on their behalf. "And the Speed Force helps take care of the timeline."

"Is it an angel?" Len asks.

Mick makes a face. "No idea. Time puppies ain't very clear. Gonna assume it's something similar, though – "

"Yeah, and humanity's pretty quick to ascribe divinity to somethings," Len agrees. "To be clear, this is the same Speed Force that powers up Barry and the other speedsters, right?"

"Yeah."

"And it's supposed to _protect_ time?"

"Speedsters are supposed to help with that," Mick says wryly. "Apparently. I'm as shocked as you are."

Len smirks and shakes his head.

The smirk fades away as his spatial sense finally kicks back in and he recognizes the corridor they're in. This is the same one that leads to the Oculus, if you didn't want to go through the park.

This is the way to the Well of Souls.

It’s time. 

Time to face up to the reality they’ve both been so carefully ignoring up until now. 

"Mick," Len says, putting a hand on his partner's arm and coming to a halt right at the doorway into the grey hallway. “Mick. Wait a minute.”

Mick slows as well, shaking off the time puppies and turning to look at him.

“Mick, I don’t think –” Len starts.

Something, not far away, explodes, and the entire station goes rocky. 

Len grabs at his comms. “What was that?” he demands.

“The ghosts got the pillar!” Kendra shouts back. “Three down, one to go! Sara, what's your status?”

“We’re _working on it_ ,” Sara says, sounding a little stressed. There’s the sound of gunfire behind her – Rip’s stupid little laser six-shooter, and an actual six-shooter – probably Hex’s – and pulse lasers, too. “Ran into a bit of, ah, roadblock. Wait, no – I’ve got it –”

And the whole Vanishing Point shakes.

The last pillar destroyed.

The Well is unstable and shaky, its outside tether gone, its pillars destroyed.

It can be destroyed, now.

It _must_ be destroyed.

No matter what the cost.

“Good,” Len says. He turns his comm off and then pulls it out of his ear and shoves it into his pocket for good measure, turning to Mick. “It’s our turn, now.”

“Yeah,” Mick says, his voice gone wary. He knows Len too well. “We need to go destroy the Oculus. Just like we planned. Right?”

“Mick – the Oculus, it’s not just a machine. It’s the Well of Souls.”

“I know that.”

“I’ve seen it,” Len says flatly. “It’s a ghost trap.”

“I know that.”

“You go in there, you won’t come out.”

Mick closes his eyes for a moment, a brief moment of pain. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. But – Len. You know as well as I do. Whoever goes there to do this explosion, ghost or not, they ain’t coming out. Breaking this machine’s a one-way road. Dead end.”

“I know,” Len says, and he does, and Mick does too. They’ve both known it all along. There’s no coming back from this one. “And that’s why you’re not going.”

Mick’s eyes fly open, but Len’s already on the wrong side of the doorway. Up-down, up-down, locking the door, just the way Kristin had earlier. 

Locking a door against a ghost wouldn't do much, in the normal run of things, but here, where ghosts are solid?

Here, it's just good enough.

“Boss!” Mick shouts. "No!"

“Forgive me,” Len says, and he means it, he means it so much it hurts. Means it like he hasn’t meant anything in ages. 

“Damnit, boss!” Mick roars, slamming his fists against the wall. “ _I’m_ the ghost here! You’re alive! _You're_ the one who should be getting out of here!”

“I need someone to take care of Lisa,” Len says. “I need someone to take care of the ghosts back home, at least for a bit, until they realize I'm not coming back and finish up passing on, so I'll need you to keep an eye on them -”

“I’m not doing _shit_ without you!”

“This is my _job_ ,” Len snarls back. “My curse! My life –"

"Your _life_!" Mick howls. "That's what I'm trying to preserve here!"

"– you heard my mom, same as I did," Len continues, ignoring him. "It’ll just be one thing after another for me, crisis after crisis, just like this whole awful trip, just for the rest of my _life_ , until I find the one thing that's worth giving it up for. That's how I die, Mick. One way or another."

"Then let it be another way!" Mick shouts. "Your life is _everything_ to me, you know that. I'm dead! I'm a ghost! If anyone should be giving up what's left of their life to do this, it's _me_!" 

"This is a _ghost trap_ , Mick!" Len shouts back. "You activate that machine, you might get _trapped_! If you’re trapped, you might not get _out_! You’ll be trapped for good, Mick; never passing on, _trapped_!”

"And what about you?" Mick snaps. "The machine's holding back ghosts in the hundreds of thousands, in the millions, and each and every one's unquiet. They'll go for you first of all, and they'll rip you apart!"

Len swallows, the bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of it, his ancient fear, the death like his mother's that dogged his heels his whole life. To die like that, all alone in the end, despite everything... "I know," he says, energy seeping out of his voice. "I know. But Mick - that's how I die, okay? That's how I'm going to die. I've known that since I was a kid. My time's just up, that's all."

"Let me do it," Mick begs, pressing his hands to the window in the door. "Lenny –"

"My kind don't leave ghosts," Len says, taking a step back. He swallows again. "We never do. There's – there's a decent chance that means that I won't get trapped, when it happens. I'll just pass on straight away."

"Lenny, _please_. There – there's people that need you alive, people that need you –"

"I love you," Len says, the words tearing free from his throat at long overdue last, the words he's always wanted to say. "I _love_ you, Mick. I can't – I can't lose you. I can pass on, knowing you'll follow, but I _can't_ lose you again."

"You're not thinking clearly," Mick says, though his eyes have gone wide and warm and suddenly wet at Len's words. "Lenny, I'm _dead_. You're alive. Your life means more than my remnant does."

Len shakes his head mutely. Mick means so much to him. So much. He's everything.

Time to show him what that really means. 

"Lenny. Boss. You need to open the door. You need to let me do this. Everything's been leading up to this moment, for me. The dreams, the power, everything. This is what my death has been about."

Len shakes his head again.

"You can't break the machine, Lenny," Mick says. "Only I can."

Len shakes his head a third time, backing up a step. Even if that's true, he'll find a way. He can't lose Mick again. Not after all the times that have happened so far.

How many times did the angel among the stars say he'd lose him? How many times have happened?

Len prides himself on his mechanical memory, but he's lost track. He's lost track.

_Remember yourself, and all will be well._

The angel said that, too.

Well, he's remembering now, damnit. He knows who he is, what he is, and everything that he is, was, or could have been - all of that is Mick's. 

"Forgive me," Len says again. "Tell – tell the others, too. Tell them I'm sorry for anything I might've done to them. All of 'em – the Legends and the ghosts and the Rogues and Team Flash and...and Lisa, too, for everything. For - for not coming back."

The words feel right on his lips, somehow. 

"Tell them all," he tells Mick. "And to you most of all. My partner."

He doesn't have more than that to offer, words of partnership said a million times over, but he means it. He means it so much it hurts. Mick's always been there, always been his other half, always, always, always.

He's always meant so much to Len.

"Len!" Mick howls, pounding at the door.

Len turns away from him and runs.

Away from Mick –

– and towards the Oculus. 

He has to do this. 

He pulls out the comm from his pocket as he run, activating it one last time. “Time to evac everyone _now_!” he shouts into it as he runs, and he barely keeps it long enough to hear the confirmation from each time, to hear Barry’s voice via some comm he’s picked up confirming that they’re moving now, they’re evacuating everyone, that they’ve gotten them all, and then Len throws the comm aside.

He won’t need it anymore.

The room that contains it is as sickening as before, the sudden staggering nausea, the sudden awareness of the horror within that Len's mind had blotted out for his own self-preservation but is now faced with again.

So many dead.

So many ghosts.

Keeping them here is an abomination - and if Len's life is what is called for to stop that abomination in its tracks, then he's here to pay it. 

Len goes to the machine in the island, the Oculus in the center of the Well. 

The ghosts who are able to scream around him, begging him for help.

Len bites his lip till it bleeds as he examines the machine, hands and eyes both, until he finds a panel that he can pop open to start digging around the insides of the machine.

It has to come from inside the machine, Mick said.

Len needs to find his way inside.

He needs –

He needs not to be thinking of Mick, the wrenching tug in his gut at the thought of losing him. He needs not to be thinking of the fate that awaits him at the end of this, a death he's feared forever and now rushes headlong towards. He needs not to be thinking –

He needs to still be aware of his surroundings.

Len barely throws himself to the side of the machine in time to avoid the laser blast aimed at his back, and even then he just barely catches himself on the very lip of the Oculus' island before he falls in to his death.

He twists.

Druce is there, holding a rifle, and he's lost all of that smooth, charismatic charm that he'd been employing on Rip. 

No, this is the snarl that kept bubbling up from beneath, lips pulled back to the point of pain, teeth bared, eyes white all around. 

The addict in his rage.

"You will not touch it," Druce spits out, his mouth flecked with spittle, his hands shaking, his eyes wide all around the pupil with the red of burst blood vessels seeping in. "You _filth_. You're unworthy of even seeing it in all its glory."

" _Glory_?" Len echoes involuntarily. "Are you _nuts_? This _thing_ is nothing but horror!"

Druce smiles. Len sees Cabrera in that smile, sees Don Tomio in that smile, sees _Savage_ in that smile.

Yes, Time Master Druce is insane, or at least a form of insanity that masquerades as sanity. He’s drunk on power, in love with power, high on power, on the _possibilities_ of that power. It’s for that power that he betrayed the lessons he'd been taught, cast off the principles he might've once valued, perjured the institution he was supposed to uphold.

"You really do worship it," Len says, disgusted realization dawning, centuries of cultural distaste coalescing at the very thought of it. This isn’t just addiction. This is _idolatry_. "You actually _worship_ the possibility of power ripped out from the pain of others. Your very own Golden Calf, except it’s made of pain instead of gold. That’s _repulsive_."

Druce laughs. "You're very judgmental," he spits. "For a _necromancer_."

"I'm not a necromancer," Len says automatically, a knee-jerk instinct of a phrase he's repeated a thousand times; but in that moment of reacting he's not acting, and Druce uses the moment to lift up the rifle and shoot.

Len finds himself on his back, all of a sudden, a burning pain in his shoulder.

It just grazed him, a line of fire and pain along his bicep; Druce's been out of the field too long to hit his heart like he wanted to.

Len struggles to his feet, to his knees, any position where he can get the cold gun out, any position where he can defend himself.

Druce gets there first.

He presses the barrel of the pulse rifle against Len's forehead.

The muzzle is pleasantly warm from its recent usage. 

"This time, necromancer," Druce says, "I'm not going to miss."

 _No_ , Len thinks, _no, this isn't how I die, this isn't –_

And suddenly, in a painfully familiar echo of Len's earlier rescue, Druce goes flying back, the rifle falling from his hand, and Len himself goes flying back the other way, over the bridge to fall upon the ground beyond it, invisible hands, warm and familiar, pressing down on his shoulders and chest.

 _Familiar_ hands?

Len sits up.

Mick is standing there.

His eyes are the terrible glowing white of the Well, the color of the poltergeist, the color of ghostly rage, the color of life itself being used up and spent as power. 

His hands are outstretched.

The poltergeist's power pins both Druce and Len to the floor on different sides of the room. 

"That's impossible!" Druce howls, unhinged, but Len was about to say the same thing.

The Well solidifies ghosts, draining their power to do so, drawing them closer like the black hole trap that it is. Len saw Parvati struggle with a guard earlier, trying to summon her rage as she always had before, but her power was as fleeting as a breath, stolen away by the Well the second she called upon it, and she was much further away than Mick is now.

So how is Mick still so powerful?

"You were right, Lenny," Mick says, and his voice is soft and terrible in its softness. "This here's a job for one of your family, with your gift and your curse and your duty. This here's the job that's meant to take your life."

He takes a step forward, then another, and the Well glows brighter in response, calling to him, pulling at him, but Mick remains firm on his own two feet, unmoved. 

"But your life's not just yours," Mick says, voice still quiet, and suddenly Len understands with crystal clarity what has happened. "You shared that life, Lenny. You've shared your life with _me_."

Len wants to scream denial, wants to stop this, but he can't. He can't even struggle. 

"All these years," Mick says, and his burning white eyes are locked on Len even as he walks to the Oculus. "All the love you've given me, the life you've shared with me, the oaths you've taken with me. One life made richer because it's shared among two. What’s mine is yours and what's yours is mine - and what's yours includes your duty, and that's mine, too. Not even the Well can challenge that."

"Mick," Len whispers.

Mick smiles at him. 

It's the opposite of Druce's smile, bared teeth and rage and powerlust gone unchecked for so long that he probably doesn’t remember life without it. This smile is nothing like that. This smile is small, and warm, and loving, a private smile, the smile Mick gives him when they're alone. 

A lover's smile, a husband's smile, a friend's smile.

A partner's smile. 

"Now it's your turn to forgive me, Lenny," he says, and his voice is still so painfully soft. There's no anger left in Mick right now. He's not powering his poltergeist with rage anymore: it's all love. Love for Len, love for the ghosts, love for the world. "It's your turn to tell 'em all that I ask their forgiveness for any wrong I've done them and most of all for leaving them. For leaving the team, and Lisa, and most of all for leaving _you_. Tell 'em – tell 'em this was something that had to be done, and that I was proud to be the one to do it."

"Mick," Len says, and he can barely breathe. "Mick, no."

"You can order me not to do it," Mick reminds him. Gently, nothing but gentleness now, here, at the end. "You have the power to. You could put that power in your voice, and you could tell me to stop. But you won't."

Len closes his eyes in pain.

It's true.

He won't.

"You won't," Mick continues, his voice strong and certain, "because you don't give me orders. Not like that. Not against something I want. Because you love me."

And it's true, it's true, that horrible truth; Len can hear the selfish voice inside of him calling out to him to stop Mick in his tracks, to banish him away from this danger so much worse than Savage ever was.

But he promised he would never again, not against something Mick chose to do, put it in his vows and his oaths, and he can’t. 

He can’t break that now.

He opens his eyes and hopes that Mick can see everything he needs to in them.

Mick smiles.

"And just so you know? I love you, too," Mick says.

And with those final words, he turns his face to the Oculus and puts his hands on the machine itself.

His eyes glow that terrible white ghostly light, brighter even than the shining light of the Well, pin-pricks of light visible even among the fierce glow beneath his feet. 

The machine begins to shake.

The Time Master who first invented the machinery of the Oculus made it well, of the toughest material, with the fewest vulnerabilities. It's a machine built to last, designed not to be tampered with, resistant to any interference.

But that Time Master – none of the Time Masters – ever thought to reckon with the full power of the poltergeist, spending in one single burst all the life he's been given over the course of decades, using it freely and in full, pouring it all out, the life that would have let him last a thousand years – giving it all of it in one giant flood of power going all at once.

Mick tears the machine apart from the inside out.

Druce is screaming.

Len can't find his voice enough to scream.

A ghostly hand falls on his shoulder.

Len immediately recoils, but the hand doesn't demand anything from him, doesn't pull out life, and Len turns to look.

It's the time wraiths, the ones that pulled Mick here, the ones that showed him where to go and what to do, the ones sent by the Speed Force to bring them to this place. Mick's time puppies. They wrap themselves around Len, all of them, forming a protective bubble made from their very selves, echoes made of speedsters immune to the pull of time itself - neither flesh nor living - and it is from within that bubble that Len can see it happen.

Mick pouring out all of the life and love Len’s given him in a single burst of light.

The machine falling apart.

Mick crying out, suddenly, a choked sound of pain that cuts off suddenly into silence. 

The Well breaking, the terrible dam bursting open.

The ghosts flooding out, hundreds, thousands, millions, more.

Druce rushing forward once Mick's power is no longer holding him fast, his arms outstretched as if he can stop what's coming by sheer insane will.

The flood of ghostly white light that rushes over him.

The way he disintegrates in that light, the ghosts drinking down every last drop of life as they go ever outwards in an explosion of –

In an explosion of joy.

Freedom.

Salvation.

The ghosts are out. They’re free. They’re free, and are no longer slaves.

Len sees them fly out, but he _feels_ them pass on, going to where ghosts ought to go at long overdue last, and he feels their thankfulness, the tears of relief they'd shed if they could. A million hallelujahs on each one's lips, one for every one of them, as many as there are stars in the sky.

They rush over him, too, the ghosts in their numbers, but the time wraiths hold steady and the grasping hands of the unquiet dead run over him without catching on. 

And then, some endless time later, it’s over. 

It’s over.

The time wraiths release Len and pull back, fading away out of existence, content, their mission here fulfilled. 

Time has been restored. The ghosts are free. The Well still shines, but now the light is a bright blue, healthy, instead of the sickly white of ghosts. 

Their job is done. 

Len’s on his knees. 

He doesn’t know when that happened.

“Mick,” he croaks, his voice dry as dust. “ _Mick_!”

There’s no response.

There’s nothing.

Mick’s gone.

Passed on, if he’s lucky –

Trapped forever in the fury of the Well of Souls, if he’s not.

Gone forever, nothing left of him, nothing but that cry of pain, cut off –

 _No_.

Len cannot let this happen.

This _cannot_ happen.

This _cannot be_ how Mick Rory ends his glorious existence. 

This cannot be all that Mick was meant to do. 

“I forgive you,” Len says, his eyes fixed on the ruin of the machine where everything that made Len what he is today once stood. “I forgive you, Mick.” 

He closes his eyes.

He knows he ought to salute Mick’s decision, he knows he ought to honor it, he knows that’s the right thing to do, he knows, he _knows_.

But Len can’t. 

Not like this.

“I can only hope you forgive me, too.” His eyes flicker upwards, the barest reminder of the God he only sometimes acknowledges. “You, too.”

Len raises his hands and summons his will. 

“Mick,” he says, and he feels it, he _feels_ the power in his body, in his voice, in his heart, power stronger than anything he’s ever felt before, power he’s always known he has and power he’s always turned away from. “Michael. Michael Christopher Sebastian Rory. Mick Rory.”

And he lets that power reach out of him, reaches past that veil that’s always been wrapped around him, a veil as thin as paper for those who are like him and his family, and beyond that veil he sees it. 

A page.

A page on which those letters, those words, that _name_ has been written in blazing letters.

A book that isn’t a book, a book of made of shadow; a book with no height, no width, no dimension, a book of endless pages - 

And on each and every one of them is written the name of one of the dead.

The black book of God.

Len reaches out with everything he is and rips that page out.

And when he opens his eyes, Mick is there in front of him again, just as Len remembers him best – no white glow in his eyes, no rage, no gentleness of resigned death. He lies sprawled out on the cold ground, fast asleep. 

His chest rising and falling.

Rising and falling, because he’s breathing involuntarily for the first time in nearly a hundred years.

He’s alive.

Not dead, not a ghost, but _alive_. 

And Len –

Len savors the sight of his beloved partner in those last few moments as his soul slips away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted on Tuesday, 3/13, and the chapter after that (the epilogue) on Wednesday, 3/14.


	50. 49

“Boss! Len! Where are – _there_ you are!” Barry exclaims, a bolt of lightning coming to a halt. “What happened to your comm?”

Len doesn’t answer him. He’s got his palm on Mick’s chest and he’s counting the breaths Mick takes. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, all the necessary parts of a life. 

Life. 

Mick’s _alive_. 

He can feel Mick’s heart beating even without Mick making an effort to fake it for him.

Len’s mind is very, very clear right now. 

He knows exactly what he’s done, and he knows what he’ll face as a result, and he just cannot seem to bring himself to care. 

Mick’s _alive_.

Not trapped, screaming forever, unheard and alone, in the Well of Souls. 

_Alive_.

“…Len?” Barry says cautiously. “You okay?”

No, not really. 

Len’s always liked the cold. It’s his theme weapon now, yes, but he always liked it, even before that. Mick was the hot one, the fire and flame; Len liked to balance him out. He liked the cold. 

But that never applied inside, not really. For all his jokes about having a cold heart and a cool head, Len always felt closely connected to the warmth of his power, the hot blood pumping throughout his body, the feeling of life and the power of that life that made up the core of him. And now he can feel it fading, cooling inside of his gut, the warmth slipping away, a feeling like having his blood pooling out of him. 

“Is something wrong with Mick?” Barry asks, and he’s there in an second, a flash of lightning, kneeling beside them both. “Is he –”

Barry falls silent.

They both watch Mick breathe in, breathe out, fast asleep the way ghosts never are.

“Len,” Barry says, his voice starting to crack. “Len, what did you do?”

“I brought him back,” Len says, his voice still rough like he’s taken sandpaper to his throat. He’s explained to Barry – to all of them, really – the consequences of breaking this last line, back when the worst they’d had to worry about was a crazy medium by the name of Cabrera and the invasion of an alternate universe; nothing like this, nothing like the horrors they'd had to face since then. Barry hasn’t seen what Len turns into when he crosses this line, not the way the Legends have, but Len’s sure they’ll explain. They’ll make Barry understand what's going to happen next. “He was gone. He’d given it all up to break open the Well. All his life. Everything. He was gone.”

“And you brought him back?” Barry asks. He looks a little panicky, his eyes gone wide and twitchy. “Like, you mean, back as a ghost, or…?”

“Back,” Len says, and smiles down at Mick. “He’s got no excuse for not looking after himself now. Can’t get away with saying he doesn't have to care because he’s dead, ‘cause he’s not. Not anymore.”

“Oh, shit,” Barry says eloquently. “Oh _shit_. This is bad, Len. Does that mean - is it gonna – are _you_ gonna –”

“Very likely,” Len says. It’s slower than he thought it would be, but then, why wouldn't it be? No reason for this to be quick and easy when it could be slow and torturous, after all. It is meant to be a punishment. “You should probably do something about it.”

“We can fix it?” Barry asks, brightening.

“You can kill me before I go insane and start hurting people.” 

Somehow, judging by the shattered look on Barry’s face, that’s not what he was hoping for. 

Len relents, just a little. “Take Mick back to the Waverider,” he says. “I assume that’s how you got out of the way of the blast?”

“Yeah, Gideon took charge of the entire fleet of ships and jumped us all out of the Vanishing Point right before it went boom,” Barry says. “Then she jumped us back here once she determined the danger passed, and I came to find you and Mick.”

“Well,” Len says. “You found us.”

Barry’s hands have started shaking and he keeps swallowing in a way that suggests tears. “We thought – we thought there was a chance we might not find you,” he says. “Some people thought you might’ve died in the explosion. That you must have died in the explosion. But I had to try to find you.”

“And you did.”

“Based on what you've said about this, you’re turning into a _necromancer_ ,” Barry exclaims. “And you’re suggesting that I _kill you_! That’s not all that much _better_!”

“Sure it is,” Len says. “Mick’s alive.”

“But –”

“Take Mick back to the Waverider,” Len says again, stronger this time. “I’ve never – I’ve never done this before. I don't really know how it works. Someone should check him over to make sure he’s all right.”

Barry nods tightly. “And then I’ll come back and get you, and we’ll do the same for you.”

“Barry…”

“Len. This is non-negotiable.”

Len shrugs his acceptance. He can feel the will and energy to fight about it seeping out of him, same as everything else. 

Barry’s gone, Mick with him, and Len’s all alone. 

He waits, idly counting the seconds.

It’s only a minute and a half later – slow, for Barry – when Barry shows back up, looking desperately glad to see Len still there.

“Okay, good,” Barry says. “C’mon, let’s get you out of this awful place.”

He offers his hands, and Len takes them. 

Barry kindly holds off a second for Len to brace himself, and then he runs.

He _runs_.

Len can _see_ it – the world turned into streams of light as they pass by so quickly that it all blurs together, a surreal impressionist painting. Light and lightning, all around him, the whistling of the wind as it passes them at supersonic speed, escalating higher and higher in pitch until all he can hear is the sound –

Wait.

He _knows_ that ear-piercing sound. 

Both too high and too low, elongated notes held for forever…

He’s heard that sound before.

Barry comes to an abrupt stop.

Len glances at him, then frowns.

‘Stop’ might not be the right word.

Barry’s frozen mid-run, one foot forward, one back in the air; his eyes are fixed somewhere far ahead of him. His free hand is still pumping, only dragged out infinitely slowly; the other one, curled around Len, is lifeless and frozen when Len prods at it.

That’s…new.

Len marvels that he can still be impressed by new things and wiggles his way out of Barry’s grasp.

The world around him is still painted in blurs and lightning, streaks of color as if he is still moving so fast that nothing else makes sense, a world of speed frozen into a single instant. 

It looks, if anything, a little like the blue-green smears of the time stream. 

“Hello?” Len calls. 

Nothing.

“I assume I’m speaking to the Speed Force?” Len says, doing his best to sound unimpressed. 

Still nothing, though Len has a growing suspicion that he’s being observed.

“Barry’s told me plenty about you,” Len says thoughtfully. “Says you’re the feeling he gets when he runs, but you’re more than that, ain’t you? You’ve got a mind of your own.”

The feeling of being watched gets stronger.

“The time wraiths belong to you.”

Still nothing. 

By now, Len’s _actually_ unimpressed. He knows the old saw about living a full life in the space of a heartbeat, but he’s definitely not interested in experiencing that – though he _has_ noticed that the feeling of being drained has stopped in its tracks, just like Barry.

Not interested in a reprieve if it comes in that form, thanks. He'd kill himself out of sheer boredom. 

“You got a name?” Len asks instead. “Or should we go with ‘Speed Force’?” 

No response. 

Okay, then. If that's how you want to play it, Len will play it right back at you. 

“Nah, that's too formal, really, ain't it?” Len decides, thinking out loud and tapping his lips with a finger in an ostentatious gesture of contemplation. “A little too ‘Star Wars’ for me, not that I don’t like myself some Star Wars. Just doesn’t fit the mood of the moment right now. How ‘bout Speedy? No, wait, that’s taken. Zoom’s gone, too. Ditto Flash, Blur, Streak and any number of other speed or fast-things-related names. Zip? Haven’t heard of a speed-related entity called Zip yet. I’m gonna call you Zip.” 

Then he starts obnoxiously humming ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah’ as loud as he can.

“You’re a very interesting man, Leonard Jacob Snart,” a voice says from behind him.

Len turns abruptly.

At first glance, it looks like Mick, and Len’s heart seizes in his chest – then he sees the strangeness behind the eyes, the casual inhumanity there, the way the presence there doesn't quite _fit_ into the form it's chosen to wear, and his teeth clench. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he says through fiercely gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare wear that face.”

“Would this be better?” something which resembles but is not Lisa asks from next to him. 

“You put your own damn face on,” Len snaps. “I’ve seen something like it before; I can handle it.”

A momentary pause.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen your faces before,” Len snaps. “I met your sister. Two of ‘em, actually. One was trapped, and I let ‘em go. The other one was free and in deep space, and I saw its face, too. So you want to talk with me? Show me yours.”

The Speed Force – who now looks like not-Sara, probably in an attempt to find someone Len doesn’t feel strongly enough about to lash out about – frowns at him. 

“No,” Len says. “ _Nobody_. Nobody else. You wanna talk to me? Then let’s talk. But it's going to be face-to-face. Face to snotting, crying face.”

“You understand, then, that you will be overwhelmed by my presence,” not-Rip says. 

“Oh, I get it,” Len says. “I know all about it. But that don’t matter; that’s not the point of it. You don’t get to hide behind faces that ain’t yours. You want to talk to me? Fine. Then I say, you either talk to me direct and let me hear you in all your math-speak brain-breaking glory, or I don’t want to hear you at all. Don’t you hear what I’m saying? _I am not afraid_. ”

He pauses for a second and adds, spitefully, “ _Ghost_.”

The world wavers around Len for the briefest moment, and then there it is.

The Speed Force, unmasked.

It’s unbearably loud, like the angel in the darkness of space.

It’s unspeakably alien, like the angel in the garden.

It’s bright and it’s painful, like looking into the Well of Souls.

Len grits his teeth and digs his fingers into his palms and forces himself stay standing up straight before it, before that formless and terrible shape, a whirlwind of light and fire moving at the infinite speed and direction of the first electron ever spurred to move. 

“Okay,” Len says, his eyes streaming in automatic tears, squinting to avoid the pain of the glare of light before him – but he doesn’t fall to his knees. Just barely, but he doesn't. “Okay. Now we can talk.”

“ _You are a very interesting man, Leonard Jacob Snart_.”

“Thanks,” Len replies. His voice is breathier and less steady than he’d prefer, but he’ll take it over not being able to talk coherently at all, which is the other option. “Also, really? The full name? You ain’t my mom.”

“ _I am many things_.”

The Speed Force speaks, perhaps unsurprisingly, in the equations of velocity and acceleration, momentum and decay, the long arc and the short burst.

“You are _not_ my mother,” Len enunciates very clearly. “There’s a limit to the number of Star Wars jokes I can make in a day, okay?”

“ _We have much to discuss_.”

“Yeah, we do,” Len says. Then he waits for a beat, and adds, “Well? You’re the one who wanted to talk to _me_.”

“ _You have no respect_.”

“I have plenty of respect where it’s earned,” Len shoots back. “Right now, from what I can tell, you're the one who sent your time puppies to drag Mick to his death, so I'm not feeling all too respectful.”

“ _It was a hero’s death_.”

“Yeah, and Mick was - Mick _is_ \- no hero,” Len says. “Not anyone’s but mine. You had no right to interfere.”

“ _He saved the timeline. The timeline, and the souls that were trapped within the Well. It was a great act, a good act, and a necessary one._.”

“Yeah, well, next time,” Len says, “ _ask us first_.”

The Speed Force looks nonplussed.

As much as a gigantic flaming hurricane can look nonplussed, anyway. 

“I probably would’ve planned it better if I’d had advance notice,” Len adds resentfully. He doesn't disagree with the Speed Force's conclusion; that's the worst of it. It was necessary. But that doesn't mean he appreciates being jerked around like a puppet on a string. “More resources, different tactics, some overall strategy instead of veering wildly from one trauma to the next.”

He thinks about it for a second, then adds, “No wonder Barry looks so stressed all the time. He’s one of mine, too, you know; I don’t appreciate you fucking with him.”

“ _He is not one of yours. He is one of mine_.”

“He can be both,” Len says, trying to be fair. Technically, yeah, the Speed Force had some claim, Barry being a speedster and all. “But like all good co-parenting relationships –”

“ _We are not co-parenting_.”

“– we’re gonna have to reach a reasonable accommodation,” Len soldiers onwards, more from sheer perversity and spite than anything else. Not that he doesn't totally have a point about Barry. “More breaks, perhaps – and I mean ‘rest periods’, not ‘break his brain-slash-body part’…”

“ _You are getting away from the point._ ” 

“Maybe you’d like to actually _make_ the point, then,” Len says, crossing his arms. Sure, there are tears pouring down his face and he kind of wants to hit himself in the eyes until the pain of looking at the Speed Force’s brightness stops, but Len will be _damned_ if he’ll let himself get stampeded or whatever the hell is going on here.

The Speed Force moves closer, which doesn’t help. “ _You know what the point is. You brought him back_.”

Len presses his lips tightly together.

“ _You have done what you know must not be done. You have done this terrible act and it cannot be undone_ ,” the Speed Force says, its voice deep as a ringing bell. “ _You have defied the laws of your faith, the laws of your family, the laws given unto you by your mother. And you will pay the consequences for what you have done_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Len says. “What else is new?”

Another pause, surprised.

“As much as I enjoy a guilt trip as much as the next guy,” Len says, “which, in case you’re not familiar with humans, is not at all, I’m starting to wonder what the _point_ of this little _chat_ really is.”

“ _As I have said_ –”

“Oh, no. No, no, no," Len says, baring his teeth in a snarl. "You didn’t need to call me here to lecture me on what I’ve done and what I’ll pay. I already know that. No. You reached out and stopped time to talk to me. You _wanted_ to talk to me. Right here, right now. And that means something.” 

Len has grown into many things in his life: a leader, a supervillain, a mastermind, a general, and even, it seems, a necromancer. But he started out a thief and a con man, and there’s no one like a con for smelling out another. 

No, you take away the bright lights and the magic powers, and what you have here is good old fashioned situational manipulation.

“You want something,” he says. “You want something from _me_. Something you can’t trick your way into, the way you did with Mick and the time puppies.” 

“ _It is not a trick_ ,” the Speed Force says, and the sweetness is back in its voice – all rippling polynomials. “ _Yes, you have broken the greatest of laws, but you have saved the timeline with your actions at the Well. That is deserving of a reward, which may yet keep you from that harm which you fear most_ –”

“Bullshit,” Len says. 

“ _You are mistrustful_ ,” the Speed Force says. 

“Hell yeah I’m mistrustful,” Len says. “First the guilt trip, then the appeal to survival? I must look pretty damn dumb to you, you and your time puppies –” Len comes to a halt. “No,” he says, half to himself. “No, not dumb. If I looked dumb, you wouldn’t have put so much effort into setting this whole thing up.”

A long pause.

“You sent the time puppies to Mick,” Len says, pieces clicking together in his mind, one right after the other, the way it does when he's at the top of his game, not desperately trying to keep up the way he has been these last few months. Things are starting to make sense. “In his dreams, in reality. But time ain’t just linear, is it? That’s why they were so happy to see him when they first saw him; they already knew he was gonna do something like this. They knew he was going to save the timeline and empty the Well. But the time puppies didn’t do shit to protect him when it counted, and I bet _that_ was on your orders. You wanted him to do what he did. You could’ve had this chat with me earlier—Barry was there, earlier, you could’ve gotten him to grab me then if you’d wanted me to—but you didn’t. You didn’t tell anyone anything, not even Barry, because you wanted _me_ to do what _I_ did, because once I did it, you’d be in a position to offer me a deal that I wouldn't be able to refuse. You set this whole thing up on purpose to get to this moment.”

“ _You are an interesting man, Leonard Jacob Snart_ ,” the Speed Forces says, which is a hell of a far thing from a denial. If anything, it sounds almost approving.

Len glares. 

“ _My intentions do not matter. You still broke the law_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Len sneers. “At least I said I’m sorry.”

The Speed Force pauses again, the light in its whirlwind flickering.

Len frowns. 

That pause he hadn’t been expecting. It means he’s hit on something, something helpful, something the Speed Force didn’t expect him to know about. He hadn’t really meant anything by it, just another sarcastic quip to parry the conversation and keep it flowing until it’s something Len can manage – until he can forget that he’s arguing with something that shines with so much power it hurts to look at – but that little jab hit harder, struck deeper, than he’d thought it would.

That means it means something. But what?

What does it _matter_ that Len said he was sorry? Or that Mick did, too? 

Hell, why _had_ he apologized? To Mick, certainly, but to ask Mick to pass it on to everyone else – that wasn’t exactly like Len. But it’d felt right to do it, right to ask forgiveness, in that horrible place outside of time, frozen the way Len is frozen now, a single day stretching forever –

No.

Not a single day.

A single _date_.

The calendar in the Vanishing Point, marked for ten days after the Refuge. 

The calendar in the Refuge, marking a day that never moved, a pre-made calendar with its homely little notations and its politically correct twentieth century holiday reminders.

He remembers now.

The date the Refuge fell on was marked as being Rosh Hashanah. 

New Years’ Day, in the Jewish calendar. A nice holiday, a happy one, yes, but it was more than that. Rosh Hashana isn’t just the start of the year, no. 

Len remembers the stories his mother told him, the ones she emphasized more than others, the ones she emphasized most of all: their family stories, the extra stories, the stories of the books of God.

Rosh Hashanah is when God opens up his three books, the good, the bad, the in-between, and marks everyone down to determine their fate for the next year.

And those books don’t close, not for ten days, _ten days_ , because ten days later –

Ten days later is the Day of Atonement. 

Yom Kippur.

The day where all wrongs have the chance to be forgiven, if you ask forgiveness from their rightful bearer. 

Wrongs against man, from man.

Wrongs against God, from God. 

The one day a year that Len will ask forgiveness, and mean it when he does. 

“I said I was sorry,” Len says slowly, very slowly, and the Speed Force is quiet before him, watching him as he figures it out. “I asked for forgiveness for what I was doing, for the rules I was breaking, and I asked for it on Yom Kippur. And I meant it, too.”

The Speed Force watches him.

“Can I be forgiven?” Len asks. “Was it early enough?”

The jumble of numbers that Len hears next makes no sense: the endless stream of pi, all rushing together, twisting into formulas Len has never even heard of; equations that speak of universes dividing like atoms, of the multiple bends of time to create worlds beyond conception, of time itself as a factor in the math of higher dimensions than humans can conceive.

The Speed Force is laughing. 

Len's eyes narrow. "I _am_ forgiven, aren't I," he says. "Already. And what I've been feeling – "

" _I believe humans refer to it as shock. A nervous breakdown_ ," the Speed Force says. Len can hear the smugness in its voice, all set theory and modal logic. " _Psychosomatic symptoms. Anxiety attack_."

"And naturally you tried to take advantage of it. Wow," Len marvels. "You're a _dick_."

" _It was worth a shot_."

"Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you."

" _Our kind is not known particularly for kindness_ ," the Speed Force points out.

That's true enough. They're a bit more flaming sword and death of the first-born. 

"I'll give you that one," Len says. He arches an eyebrow. "You still want something from me, though, don't you?"

" _Yes_."

"Okay, then. What's your offer?"

" _What_?"

"I did say that if you wanted us to save the world, you should try asking," Len points out. "Just because you don't have me over a barrel anymore doesn't mean it's not still available. Never said we'd do it for free, though. What's your opening offer?"

" _Are we – haggling_?"

"You bet your angelic ass we are."

" _I did not predict this turn of events_ ," the Speed Force observes thoughtfully. " _Perhaps I should have. Your forefathers were clever with their bargains, too_."

"If you're about to make a Sodom and Gomorrah reference, I want to remind you that we're pretty damn good at it," Len warns. "Abraham got God down from fifty to ten, and gave up nothing in the process."

" _I will endeavor to be cautious_ ," the Speed Force says ironically. 

Irony, in math, is apparently made of combinatorics.

"Give me an offer," Len says. "And tell me what it'll cost me. And maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll consider it."

The Speed Force laughs again.

But then it falls serious, a harsh jangle of fractions. " _Very well, Leonard Jacob Snart_ ," it says, and the light and fury of the storm in front of him increases in intensity.

Again with the full name. Len would cross his arms pointedly if he hadn't already done that earlier, and his hands are gripping his arms for secret comfort too tightly for him to let go now.

" _What I desire from you is the final piece in a grand puzzle played over time itself_ ," the Speed Force says. " _As you know, time is not linear. The Well bends time around it, and in so doing it helps pull the time stream forwards, helps create the linearity of the stream, helps time flow forward so that living beings like humans can survive and grow the way they do, moving ever forward in time. But that very bending of time is an opportunity. It creates the possibility of causality where there was none before._ "

"Is this Rip's whole 'Time wants to happen' blather in fancier language?" Len asks suspiciously.

" _Time, like any stream, prefers the course it already lies in_."

"So you want to change time permanently."

" _No_ ," the Speed Force. " _I already have_."

Len arches his eyebrows.

" _I have given humanity power_ ," the Speed Force says. " _My gift_."

"You mean speedsters."

" _I would see an age of heroes upon this earth once more_ ," the Speed Force says. " _And my children to be at its forefront._ "

"Oka-ay," Len drawls. He doesn't object to the idea in principal - he likes all that speedstery stuff, and he wouldn't be a comic book nerd if he didn't like the idea of an age of heroes - but he kind of wishes the Speed Force would be a little less evasive and just tell him what it wants. His eyes hurt, and he wants to go home. He wants to go listen to Mick breathe some more. "And thus Barry."

" _And others_."

"So what's this got to do with me?"

" _My kind and yours are not the same_ ," the Speed Force says. It sounds – almost uncomfortable? " _My gift is in flux, given yet not yet given, until I find a foundation of power more compatible with humanity to fix my gift upon_ –"

And that's when Len starts laughing, because of course. 

_Of course_.

He should've known.

The Speed Force radiates affront again.

"Life," Len says, sniggering. "It's life, isn't it? You want my life, just like every other ghost I've ever met."

" _The power we have does not interact well with other forms of life_ ," the Speed Force says, sounding almost sulky about it. " _As you saw in the garden with my sister_."

"And that's why you want my life, is it? Human life is compatible with humans, when used by a ghost. You want it so that you can give speedsters access to your power."

" _Yes. What they do with it after that is not up to me. I can only offer suggestions and aid._ "

"Free will."

" _Yes_."

"Right," Len says. "And the time wraiths?"

" _Echoes of speedsters. They too will be formed by this pact_."

"So that's why they like Mick and me so much," Len says, nodding. Mick was right. They’re puppies, and, worse, they’re puppies that have imprinted on Mom and Dad. They’re _never_ getting rid of them. "Right. So what's the cost, and what's the offer? You obviously have been wanting this to happen for some time. You pulled strings where you could, you hoped this would result, and I'm pretty pissed at you for doing it, so you'd better have a real good reason or a _real_ good offer."

" _It had to happen this way_ ," the Speed Force says reluctantly. " _The Well had to be emptied; that was in Time's stream already. Your participation smoothed the edges of an otherwise far more fatal voyage._ "

Yeah, Len figured as much.

"Why, then?" he asks. "Why did you wait until now to ask me about this?"

" _The power I require is not merely that of one of the chosen, flush with their own life, or I would have asked for it before from one of your forefathers. It is the power of a necromancer that I need._ "

Len stiffens.

" _Mercy is infinite_ ," the Speed Force says. " _You asked for forgiveness on the day in which all men can earn forgiveness. And so you were forgiven, and the consequences allayed: your heart remains your own, and you are not condemned to suffer the terrible fate of necromancers. But forgiveness does not change the fact that you still did the act. You are a necromancer now. That cannot be undone. But that also means you can give me the power I seek – if you wish to._ "

"And none of the other necromancers wanted to, huh?"

" _None would give up their power_ ," the Speed Force agreed. 

Len's eyebrows shot up. "Hold up now. What's this about ‘giving up’?"

" _The cost_ ," the Speed Force grudgingly admits. " _The amount of your life I require is not only great in size, but in duration_."

"Be more specific," Len says sharply.

" _You would be weakened. Not only for the moment, but for years; you would be as a child again, your life your own and few others'. You would face the fears of your past once more_."

"The unquiet dead? You're telling me I'd be vulnerable to them again, now I know all of what they're capable of," Len says, glaring. "That sounds like an awful big cost to me, given that they all plan to _murder me_ if given half a chance."

" _It is not only cost_ ," the Speed Force protests. " _You will be weakened, yes, but your attraction for their ilk is likewise diminished. You will walk the same balance you did before._ "

"I was very happy to grow out of that stage of my life," Len snaps, but then tries to control himself. Be cool, Len. After all – "I haven't heard your offer yet."

" _The cost is also a gift_ ," the Speed Force says. " _Your duty comes as your power grows, and with your duty your death. This shall forestall it._ "

It takes Len a few minutes to parse through that. But when he does, his breath catches in his throat. "You're telling me that my curse – the bit where I die – gets delayed. That I get to live a bit longer."

" _Several decades, at least, before your power returns to where it is now and you are called upon once more to do your duty_ ," the Speed Force agrees. " _I will slow the effects of age upon you, as I do to my speedsters, so that you might have the enjoyment of those years._ "

"And Mick?"

" _For his sacrifice and his part, he will receive the same as well_."

That sounds – that sounds pretty good to Len, actually. Getting to live to see Lisa marry and maybe have a few kids, being partners with Mick, a _living_ Mick, marrying for real this time, not facing that ticking clock for a few decades yet…that all sounds _really_ good. 

Too good.

He presses his lips together. "And why, exactly, did no one take you up on this offer before? Alternate me, for instance, from 2046, or from the one where Lisa – well, the world where Mick never died?"

" _My ambitions require a necromancer willing to give up his power to create heroes_ ," the Speed Force admits. " _Your kin often die well before they achieve that state, and those that do are rarely kindly inclined – and almost never inclined to part with their power_."

"Yeah, because they're megalomaniacal nutjobs whose power is the only thing they have left," Len says. "So that's it, huh? They wouldn't give up their power once they were necromancers, so you needed to find one that didn't go totally nuts right off the bat. You needed me."

" _Yes_."

"Sounds like a pretty good negotiating position for me," Len says. "Now what's the catch?"

The Speed Force, for once, doesn't try to eel around the answer. " _Time is its own creature, not mine to command. Your duty has been called; though you will be weaker and only called to face weaker challenges, challenges that you can face and may overcome, you will be called regardless. You will face challenge after challenge._ "

"'May you live in interesting times' is a curse among Jews too, you know," Len says.

" _You will not be called to fight alone_."

"Seems to me this deal's pretty good for you," Len says. "You want your heroes, your speedsters, and you want them to do great big hero things. I'm gonna be a locus of challenging things, and they're gonna help me fight 'em. _And_ the 'offer' you're giving me sounds a lot like a beneficial side-effect of what you want me to do anyway."

The Speed Force sighs, a curl of fractals. " _What do you want?_ "

"Oh, I don't know," Len drawls. "Why don't we agree on a set of favors, to be paid in the future? One for each speedster."

" _One for –!_ "

"None of which you'll have at all if it ain't for me," Len points out. “And I’m totally counting Garrick and Zoom from that other universe, so this ain’t static. Each new speedster, new favor. Take it or leave it.”

The Speed Force is quiet a long moment. " _Very well_ ," it says. It sounds amused again. " _Very well. As you warned me, you bargain well_."

"Family tradition," Len replies smugly. 

" _And so as to that tradition, your name, which once was Jacob_ –"

"Oh fuck no," Len says. "You’ve _got_ to be kidding me."

" _– shall herefore be called as Israel, for you have struggled with –_ "

"You're not God," Len points out. "Nope. No. I _refuse_. What the _fuck_. You are not making the world’s worst Bible joke. _No_."

" _Your forefather wrestled with an angel, too_ ," the Speed Force points out.

"I am _not_ a Biblical patriarch!"

" _You have done well to live up to –_ "

"Jacob was a colossal _dick_ in the Bible!"

" _It seems appropriate enough to me_ ," the Speed Force says.

Goddamn snarky angels. 

"Shut up," Len tells it. "Just – shut up.” He shakes his head. “Does this mean I get to punch you? You seem very punchable.”

“ _Be glad I don’t dislocate your hip socket_.”

“Might be worth it,” Len grumbles.

" _Are we thus agreed?_ " the Speed Force asks.

"Yeah," Len says. Commanding armies was useful, sure, but he'd always preferred leading crews, where he could know every person, every ghost. Where he could help them pass on, one by one, request by request. 

And Mick will be there, and Lisa, and all the others, too.

"Yeah," Len says again. "Yeah, okay. We've got a deal."

The Speed Force says, “ _Good_.”

And so it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter (epilogue) to go, to be posted tomorrow!


	51. 50 (epilogue)

“Mick.”

“No.”

“Mi-ck.”

“Uh-uh.”

“ _Miiiiiick_.”

“Fine,” Mick groans, and turns to look at Len. “I give in. Go for it.”

“Mick,” Len says, eyes wide and innocent. “Why’ve I got an IV?”

“I’m gonna strangle you,” Mick says. “I can do things like that now.”

“Not without getting out of your very own hospital bed,” Len says smugly, lounging back as much as he can in the bed he'd been provided by STAR Labs. “And you were a poltergeist; leave off on the whole ‘I can do things like that now’. You could _always_ do that.”

Mick grumbles.

“You’re just sore about being confined to a bed because you walked into a wall. _Again_.”

“I _forgot_ ,” Mick grumble some more, even though he's having trouble hiding a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “They're too damn solid now. I’m working on it!”

Len sniggers unashamedly.

“Besides,” Mick says, rolling his eyes at Len. “He who has a regular IV drip doesn’t get to throw stones about being confined to a bed.”

Len shrugs. “Doc says I can get off it soon.”

Doc Allen – working with Caitlin now that Nora has finally passed on, happy and at peace with her husband and son by her side – picks that moment to walk in and roll his eyes at both of them. “You’re still dehydrated and malnourished, Leonard,” he says. “You're just not dehydrated and malnourished in such a way that it's life-threatening anymore. And please, let us not forget how you went into an epileptic fit the second you hit the ground while, let me remind you, several of your organs were temporarily deciding whether or not they felt like working.”

“I survived,” Len points out. He didn't remember much of that whole experience, but from what he understands, it was a team effort: Barry realizing something was wrong and running him back to Gideon for crisis care, followed by Cisco vibing him straight back to STAR Labs where a combination of Gideon, Doc Allen, and Caitlin worked for about twenty-four hours straight on him. Mick slept through the whole thing, thank god. “Thanks to your hard work.”

Doc Allen snorts. “Caitlin did the initial job; I came in to lend a hand and now I’m stuck for the long haul,” he says, but he’s smiling, so Len doesn’t think he’s all too upset about how it all turned out. “Tell that Speed Force of yours that it should give people more warning before dumping a critically ill man on them without explanation.”

“Speed Force of _mine_?” Len protests. “Talk to your _son_.”

Doc Allen doesn’t say anything in response, just looks pointedly over at Mick’s bed where he’s idly petting the one time wraith that decided to stick around after everything.

Len’s still a bit bitter about the whole time travel thing, but finding out that time wraiths, like the puppies Mick insists on calling them, kind of not-so-secretly like being scritched behind the ears was definitely a hilarious upside. 

Besides, Zip-Zip the Second (Zip-Zip for short) is totally a Rogue MVP, even if – like all time wraiths – he's too decayed an echo to have actual sentience beyond the basic puppy level. He terrifies the living daylights out of most people, even hardened criminals, and he's an excellent guard against most unquiet dead, a personality facet that Len deeply appreciates now that Mick can't just punch them in the face anymore. 

Mick can still see them, though, which appears to be a remnant of being resurrected. 

Also, Team Flash's newfound buddy Constantine keeps asking Mick for freely-given fingernail clippings and hair samples with a vaguely blissed-out look on his face. Apparently Mick works pretty well in spell components that usually call for stuff related to saints or possibly a certain famous crucifixion itself, which gives rise to some very interesting theological questions that Len has exactly zero interest in exploring further. 

He really, _really_ doesn't want to know. 

(Sure, Sara vouches for Constantine being a beneficent medium, but Len’s still suspicious. Practically on principle at this point.)

Still, Len appreciates having Zip-Zip there to keep up a guard against the unquiet dead. Most of the ghosts that had made up his ghostly army in Central dispersed when he returned weakened, many of them passing on with others fading back to their original haunts. As predicted, Len is as vulnerable as a child – he has enough life to give away to those he wants to, enough for small things to help them pass on, but he's soft and tender inside in places he hadn't even know _could_ be tender, and he has to limit his giving, which in turn makes him vulnerable to the unquiet dead, who never much liked waiting to be given what they felt they could just take. Zip-Zip helps him deal with that. 

He kind of likes it, actually. Sure, having the army had been useful, and he'd enjoyed having groups to send out and scout, but he'd always preferred getting to know the ghosts around him, having to put a personal touch on getting them what they needed to pass on. Of Svetlana's ghostly crew, Miko is still around, having bonded with Mick over her severe need for therapy for her endless rage at the fact that they’ll never catch her killer – though Len’s gotten in touch with a cold case murder mystery television/film team, and he thinks having a movie made of her situation might just do the trick for her. There’s technically also Jack and Ahmed, who have taken up very pleased and non-murderous residence in San Francisco, but Len suspects they'll be passing on sooner rather than later.

And even beyond Miko, Len has his own new ghostly crew of protectors – an angry young woman named Talia that Len has made a mental note to talk to Sara about next time he sees her, a rather amusingly sarcastic man by the name of Slade, and a rather charming but surprisingly powerful child-ghost no older than six called Clark that Barry keeps saying seems oddly familiar. 

Something about some other universe he’d visited briefly. 

Whatever. 

Len likes his new crew. 

Mick grumbles a bit about his carefully trained defense wall of friendly ghosts no longer being an option, but Zip-Zip's protection has gone a long way towards calming Mick's fears about Len being attacked before he fully heals from his deal with the Speed Force.

When they first met, Barry swore Zip-Zip was one of his ghostly time echoes, but Cisco vibed him and discovered that he's actually the ghost of – and Len _loves_ this – the long-lost identical twin brother that Barry could have had in another universe.

Barry’s expression had been worth every second. 

Also? Len is _totally_ counting that in his favors. 

"Leave Zip-Zip out of your beef with the Speed Force," Mick says to both Doc Allen and Len, shaking his head and looking over-protective as always. "Tell Svetlana to shout a word of warning into the Well; maybe that'll work."

As it happens, Svetlana herself announced that she had no interest in either sticking around or in passing on quite yet, or at least not until she's had enough adventures to sate even her wanderlust. She's kept the Hunters' ship as her own, even though she cheerfully observed that it's a bit small for a flagship.

And it _is_ a flagship, with Svetlana and Parvati teaming up with Kristin to help guide the Time Masters into a new and enlightened approach to time travel, with the added bonus of actually taking care of the Well of Souls like they’d originally been meant to do all along.

All told, the remaining Time Masters had been seriously shaken by the revelations about the Well and the Oculus, not to mention the Matron's confessions about the way children had been selected from time periods at the Time Masters' whim and never mind if they had parents or loved ones, as well as the way they'd been carefully re-educated to suit the Time Masters' needs. The Hunters had also been very vocal about what horrors they'd been put through at the Time Masters' behest, which had horrified just about everyone – mostly by throwing the fact of their complicity in their faces. 

The leadership responsible (and aware) of these actions had mostly perished, either by throwing their lot in with the wrong side in the Hunters' battle or by refusing to evacuate the Vanishing Point in time, convinced of their superiority to the last, but those that remained had confessed in order to avoid being put on a full trial.

Rip said something about them having assumed that the new regime's trials would be the same as the old, which was another thing Len didn't want to ask too much about. 

Rip himself is technically one of the leaders of the new Time Bureau, as they're calling it – Jax having pointed out that 'Master' gave people the entirely wrong idea – but he's resigned his position as an active field agent in favor of a teaching position at the new and improved Vanishing Point. His newly rescued and very friendly wife Miranda and his son Jonas – easy enough to scoop up now that Savage was gone and there were no Time Masters or Oculus to interfere – accompanied him, much to his endless delight. 

As, amusingly enough, did Jonah Hex, who seems to be rapidly becoming more and more resigned to the idea that he might end his time in the West as a legend that never officially died, but disappeared into the sunset. He still makes a point of heading back every once in a while, just to keep the legend alive and well. 

Len's temporary acquaintance Ted had, like many of the less devoted ex-Time Masters, opted against joining the Bureau and had returned to his original timeline to live out a regular life. Interestingly, his original timeline had been in the late twentieth century, which meant that there was a better-than-average chance that he'd turn up in Central City as an adult once he figured out who Len was. 

Len is looking forward to it. He rather thinks that Ted and Ray will get along.

Ray, Sara, Kendra and Carter had resolved to continue on with the Bureau until the ex-Time Masters got the hang of this whole morality shtick. Rip had surrendered the captaincy of the Waverider to a very surprised but pleased Sara, and they'd gone out on a quest to find some new crew members to fill out their 'team of misfits', as they've taken to calling themselves. 

Ray, Kendra and Carter – the last of whom is still very much dead and awaiting resurrection once Kendra dies as well, albeit in a very strong poltergeist form – have, as Len suspected, solved their love triangle by connecting all the lines. 

Ray makes a lot of jokes about his relationship with his girlfriend being complicated by her ongoing preoccupation with her dead ex-boyfriend, usually to people who misinterpret the meaning. 

They're very happy together.

Okay, Carter sometimes forgets himself and falls back into his old self-absorbed habits, but Kendra assures them all that it’s nothing some shouting-and-making-up doesn’t fix, and he helps return the favor when Kendra is being excessively insecure or judgment or when Ray accidentally lets his privilege put his foot into his mouth again. 

Oddly enough, Len's pretty sure they're going to work it out. 

In contrast to the splintered Time Masters, the Hunters all decided, together, that they were quitting the time travel game, though quite a few Hunters' ships disappeared as a measure of insurance. They intended to find a place where they could rest and heal and remember what it was like to be human again. There were very few that were willing to leave their highly secret safe haven.

The red-helmeted Hunter who had helped lead the rebellion against the Time Masters, who had been called Kronos by the Time Masters but who has now returned to his former name, Jason Todd – another citizen of the early twentieth-first century – is one of those few, regularly leaving the Hunters’ isolated home compound to come visit their era once in a while. 

Apparently he has some unfinished business in Gotham. 

Honestly, the list of things that Len doesn't really want to know gets longer and longer every day. He never knew he could be so incurious. 

"– boss?" 

Len blinks and shakes himself out of his reverie. Doc Allen says it's probably a side-effect of the life-drain, the way he tends to drift off into daydreams; to Len's relief, it does seem to be getting better every day, easier to focus and easier to plan. 

He’ll be good as new in no time. 

Mick's looking at him with a fond smile. "Lisa wants to know if you think you'll be up to chairing the next Rogues’ meeting." He nods at his phone.

"When is it?" Len asks. Lisa started the Rogues off with a bang in his absence – Mardon the Weather Wizard, the young Trickster, and even old Scudder (Mirror Master?) and Dillon (the Top? Really?) which Len hadn't even realized were metas now. At least Scudder's gotten over his grudge against that one little instance of attempted murder, which really no one should hold against Len. Even one of the ex-Time Masters signed up to join them, calling himself Abra Kadabra; he's enough of a narcissistic asshole that he could’ve challenge Scudder to a dick-waving contest, but he'd been very impressed with Len at the Oculus and was much more respectful as a result. He actually gets along with Scudder, much to everyone, even Dillon's, surprise, with their two egos somehow managing to mirror each other – pun intended. 

Wally and Jax are sadly a permanent loss to the hero side, as Kid Flash and Firestorm respectively, but Len's pretty confident that the Rogues will be able to offer Team Flash some serious challenges once he's feeling better.

(Wally and Jax are also still successfully dating and are even considering moving in together as they begin their Rogue-and-Barry-Allen-funded college educations in styles, arguing that rooming with someone in the superhero loop would make cancelling date night to stop a heist infinitely easier. Jax also argues that having lived on the Waverider for several months, he’s now equipped to deal with _anyone’s_ weird quirks. Jenna is in favor, Joe is not, and Francine is on the fence, but for some reason Len thinks it’s going to happen regardless of any of their input – especially since Clarissa and Stein offered them excellent rental rates on the basement apartment in their house.)

Despite having done all the work to put them together, Lisa insists that Len’s the real leader of the Rogues and that she was only acting in a temporary capacity, but Len’s pretty set on making sure she still has the leadership role. Even if he _is_ better than her at planning large-crew jobs. 

Best of all, though, the newly dubbed Rogues all accepted Len's code of honor – somewhat amended by Lisa – as the price of entry, which meant that Barry didn't have to have a crisis of conscience over letting them run mostly free, or at least regularly imprisoning them somewhere he knew they were going to easily escape from. Practically the same thing, when you get down to it.

They’re going to have _so much fun_. 

"Next month," Mick reports after a brief flurry of texts. "She sent 'em all on vacation until then – by which I means she ditched 'em all with cash in totally different cities. Show 'em the perks of joining up, that sorta thing, I dunno. I think she just wanted to make sure they wouldn't cause trouble while you were getting better." 

Len takes stock of himself and does a quick calculation of how fast he's been recovering. He can't help but hear math in angels' voices now, but he's still damn good at it. "Yeah, next month should be fine. She should stop worrying."

"She won't be happy until you've broken into a bank or two," Mick says wisely. 

"That's my cue to go, before I get hit with an aiding and abetting charge," Doc Allen says with a laugh. "Len, I'm serious, you're not to stress yourself for the next few weeks."

"I know, I know."

"Yeah, well, what you don't know is that I'm taking you off the IVs tomorrow," Doc Allen says, smirking at how Len brightens. "Yes, we’re going back to solid food; you’re going to hate every minute of it. But it’s a step closer to getting better. Just remember – go _slow_."

"I'm not Barry," Len says. "I'll be good." He considers for a moment. "Or at least slow."

Doc Allen rolls his eyes. "Oh, speaking of my troublemaker of a son, he had something he wanted to ask you later about. I'll send him by when he's done with his rounds."

"Sure."

"What about me, doc?" Mick asks. "Am I free or do I have to jail break?"

"You're good to go, provided you also keep it low-key for a while," Doc Allen says, shaking his head at Mick. "And stop walking into walls!"

"I'm _working_ on it!"

Len laughs.

Doc Allen shakes his head again, smiling, and leaves.

Mick takes advantage of his newfound freedom to come and perch on Len's bed. He's still smiling. "Soon, you're gonna be free, too," he says. "And then I'm _finally_ gonna get a chance to strangle you for risking your life to pull that stupid stunt the way you did." 

Now it's Len's turn to roll his eyes. 

Mick has taken to being alive with overwhelming joy. The others of Team Flash and the Legends didn't quite understand it, since he lost his poltergeist powers and invulnerability in the process, but being dead – even a dead man with as much life as Len could spare him – was still nothing compared to being _alive_ , with his own life energy powering him.

Len was half concerned that Mick would de-age back to the age he died at, but luckily it didn't come to pass; he is living at the age Len imagined him being, which is to say around forty. Albeit a forty year old with especially powerful muscles, no history of illnesses, and a perfect set of vaccinations (Doc Allen grumbled about how that didn't make sense for _ages_ ), plus an almost unrealistic facility for languages. 

So it’s not that Mick’s ticked about any of that happening. 

No, what Mick likes to threaten to strangle Len over is being dumb enough to break the one rule he knew he shouldn't break.

Len has pointed out, quite reasonably in his mind, that if Mick had wanted a say in it, he shouldn't have gotten himself killed a second time over.

Mick doesn't agree with Len's clearly self-evident logic. 

"I'm here, I'm fine, we're both alive and ready to party –" Lisa has been dropping increasingly less subtle hints that they ought to get remarried now that 'till death do us part' is relevant to them again. Stein has volunteered to officiate as a certified rabbi, and Len's thinking of taking him up on it. "– _and_ the Speed Force owes me favors. I still say I came out on top. Everything's _fine_."

"Don't say things like that," Mick says. "You're just asking for fate to throw something _weird_ at you."

"We missed the invasion of the super-intelligent gorillas that Team Flash had to deal with," Len points out. “That very nearly trumps all our weirdness.”

"Fair," Mick concedes. "But still. Weird stuff."

"Weirder than the whole 'spear of destiny' thing Rip started blubbering on about?"

They sent the new Time Bureau fleet out in full force to collect the pieces as their first mission together, a minimum of two teams working together for each piece to serve as each other’s back-up in the event of the inevitable screw-up. 

It was a cakewalk.

"Why not? Maybe your friend the angel will come to visit and accidentally start a new religion."

"A - which one? B - no. No theology talk," Len says very firmly. He’s had enough religion to last him a lifetime, thanks; he’s gonna take this brand new ‘incurious’ thing to the next level and just _never think about it again_. Other than maybe the fact that his goddamn birth certificate now says ‘Israel’ instead of ‘Jacob’, which he is going to find and _punch_ the Speed Force about, because he’s mostly sure that’s just the Speed Force attempting to have a sense of humor. 

Still. 

Len reaches out and takes Mick's hand. "Lemme just be happy with things as they are. Till the next big excitement, anyway."

Mick squeezes Len's hand in return. "Be happy," he says. "You being happy's everything I've ever wanted."

"Yeah, well," Len says, averting his eyes. Feelings still make him queasy. "Ditto."

"You two are the least touchy-feely schmoopy romantics I've ever met," Barry declares, arriving in a crackle of lightning and a blur of papers fluttering into the air. "You literally both just nearly died and came back to life; you're entitled to be a bit more enthusiastic about it! Especially in private! Also, on a note totally unrelated to displays of affection, Lisa and Cisco say hi from the weekend getaway they're on in Keystone."

"Tell Cisco I still owe him a shovel talk," Len says. "Last one didn't count; I was still zoning out every few minutes."

Mick sniggers.

Barry grins.

"So what is it you wanted to ask?" Mick says. He doesn't let go of Len's hand.

Len –

Len's okay with that.

They _are_ married, after all.

And will soon be again, for that matter. Len’s reputation for scary and cold-hearted is clearly shot all to hell. Might as well give in now. 

"Well," Barry says. "Um. It’s a bit complicated. And possibly involves dead people.”

“Well, then, you’ve clearly come to the right place,” Len drawls.

“Who’s he gonna ask, if not our resident necromancer?” Mick quips.

“I’m not a –” Len starts to say automatically, then wrinkles his nose. “ _Damnit_.”

Mick bursts out laughing. Again. Because old habits are hard to break even if they're no longer technically true. “That never gets old,” Mick sniggers.

“Unlike _you_ now.”

“I _know_. It’s _great_.”

Barry laughs. 

“But you had a question,” Len says. “Well? What trouble’s come our way now?”

“I _could_ be here for a non-trouble related reason,” Barry protests.

“Yet, oddly enough, you never are,” Len shoots back. “Stop stalling, Scarlet. What’s the question?”

“Okay,” Barry says. “So let's say – theoretically –”

"I hate theoretical questions," Mick says to Len. 

"– _theoretically_ , that at some point in the future I learn how to make a duplicate of myself using the Speed Force. And, _theoretically_ , that duplicate of myself went absolutely stark raving nuts and decided to go back in time and make himself a speedster god with his own cult –"

"This is sounding less and less theoretical," Mick groans. 

"Uh," Barry says, and grins sheepishly. "Maybe?"

Len just starts laughing.

The few ghosts left nearby perk up at the accidental overflow of life that comes with it.

This is absolutely ridiculous. Absurd. Totally not the sort of problem any normal person would ever have to deal with.

But honestly? Len wouldn't have his life be any other way.

"I'm counting that one as another favor!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote! (literally) 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for joining me on this wild ride: this fic was a pleasure to write and an even greater pleasure to post, and no small bit of that has been seeing all of your wonderful comments. While this fic is definitely complete, I'm very much open to writing more in this universe, so please send me any suggestions if you have any (either director's cut snippets of scenes I didn't include that you would have liked to see, alternative POV scenes, or even ideas for a sequel) and feel free to ask any questions you might have about anything that happened in this fic so far - I will definitely still be reading the comments here and will do my utmost best to answer!
> 
> With the help of kickingshoes, I'm hosting some chats for anyone who wants to come talk about this fic, ask questions, or suggest new ideas, to be held at 1PM (EST) on both Saturday March 17 and Sunday March 18 at https://picarto.tv/kickingshoes - I hope to see some of you there!


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